THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Richard  Petrie 


STELLA   MARIS 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

IDOLS 

SEPTIMUS 

DERELICTS 

THE  USURPER 

WHERE  LOVE  Is 

THE  WHITE  DOVE 

SIMON  THE  JESTER 

A  STUDY  IN  SHADOWS' 

A  CHRISTMAS  MYSTERY 

THE  BELOVED  VAGABOND 

AT  THE  GATE  OF  SAMARIA 

THE  GLORY  OF  CLEMENTINA 

THE  MORALS  OF  MARCUS  ORDEYNE 

THE  DEMAGOGUE  AND  LADY  PHAYRE 

THE  JOYOUS  ADVENTURES  OF  ARISTTOE 
PUJOL 


L 


STELLA  AND   THE  GREAT  DANE 


STELLA    MARIS 


BY 

WILLIAM  J.  LOCKE 


ILLUSTRATIONS 
BY 

FRANK  WILES 


NEW  YORK:  JOHN   LANE   COMPANY 

LONDON:  JOHN  LANE,  THE  BODLEY  HEAD 

TORONTO:   BELL  &  COCKBURN 

MCMXIII 


COPYRIGHT,  1912,  BY 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 

COPYRIGHT,  1913,  BY 
JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


ffc 

60.23 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Stella  and  the  Great  Dane Frontispiece 

TO   FACE 
FACE 

The  young  men,  accordingly,  raised  their  glasses  .  .  .  and  drank 

to  Stella 30 

"I  come  and  live  with  you?"  gasped  Miss  Lindon 76 

"Who  are  you,  my  dear?"  asked  Stellamaris     ......     108 

"This  time  next  year  she  will  be  leading  a  normal  woman's  life"  .     158 

Then  she  sat  up,  and   ....  flushed,  happy,   and  adorably 

dishevelled,  looked  at  him 236 

She  turned  on  him  a  miserable,  scared  face,  and  told  him  of  her 

discovery 268 

She  looked  down  with  a  new  and  life-giving  feeling  of  pity  upon 

the  bowed  gray  heads 322 


905345 


STELLA    MARIS 


CHAPTER  I 

STELLA  MARIS— Star  of  the  Sea! 
That  was  not  her  real  name.  No  one  could 
have  christened  an  inoffensive  babe  so  ab- 
surdly. Her  mother  had,  indeed,  through  the  agency 
of  godfathers  and  godmothers,  called  her  Stella  after 
a  rich  old  maiden  aunt,  thereby  showing  her  wisdom ; 
for  the  maiden  aunt  died  gratefully  a  year  after  the 
child  was  born,  and  bequeathed  to  her  a  comfortable 
fortune.  Her  father  had  given  her  the  respectable 
patronymic  of  Blount,  which,  as  all  the  world  knows, 
or  ought  to  know,  is  not  pronounced  as  it  is  spelled. 
It  is  not  pronounced  "Maris,"  however,  as,  in  view  of 
the  many  vagaries  of  British  nomenclature,  it  might 
very  well  be,  but  "Blunt."  It  was  Walter  Herold, 
the  fantastic,  who  tacked  on  the  Maris  to  her  Chris- 
tian name,  and  ran  the  two  words  together  so  that  to 
all  and  sundry  the  poor  child  became  Stellamaris,  and 
to  herself  a  baptismal  puzzle,  never  being  quite  certain 
whether  Stella  was  not  a  pert  diminutive,  and 
whether  she  ought  to  subscribe  herself  in  formal  docu- 
ments as  "Stellamaris  Blount." 

The  invention  of  this  title  must  not  be  regarded  as 
the  supreme  effort  of  the  imagination  of  Walter 
Herold.  It  would  have  been  obvious  to  anybody 
with  a  bowing  acquaintance  with  the  Latin  tongue. 

I 


2  STELLA   MARIS 

Her  name  was  Stella,  and  she  passed  her  life  by  the 
sea — passed  it  away  up  on  top  of  a  cliff  on  the  South 
coast;  passed  it  in  one  big,  beautiful  room  that  had 
big  windows  south  and  west ;  passed  it  in  bed,  flat  on 
her  back,  with  never  an  outlook  on  the  outside  world 
save  sea  and  sky.  And  the  curtains  of  the  room  were 
never  drawn,  and  in  the  darkness  a  lamp  always  shone 
in  the  western  window;  so  that  Walter  Herold,  at 
the  foot  of  the  cliff,  one  night  of  storm  and  dashing 
spray,  seeing  the  light  burning  steadily  like  a  star, 
may  be  excused  for  a  bit  of  confusion  of  thought 
when  he  gripped  his  friend  John  Risca's  arm  with 
one  hand  and,  pointing  with  the  other,  cried: 
"Stella  Maris !  What  a  name  for  her !" 
And  when  he  saw  her  the  next  morning — she  was 
twelve  years  old  at  the  time  and  had  worked  out  only 
a  short  term  of  her  long  imprisonment — he  called  her 
Stellamaris  to  her  face,  and  she  laughed  in  a  sweet, 
elfin  way,  and  Herold  being  the  Great  High  Favourite 
of  her  little  court  (a  title  conferred  by  herself),  she 
issued  an  edict  that  by  that  style  and  quality  was  it 
her  pleasure  henceforth  to  be  designated.  John  Risca, 
in  his  capacity  of  Great  High  Belovedest,  obeyed  the 
ukase  without  question;  and  so  did  His  Great  High 
Excellency,  her  uncle,  Sir  Oliver  Blount,  and  Her 
Most  Exquisite  Auntship,  Lady  Blount,  his  wife  and 
first  cousin  to  John  Risca. 

The  events  in  the  life  of  Stella  Blount  which  this 
chronicle  will  attempt  to  record  did  not  take  place 
when  she  was  a  child  of  twelve.  But  we  meet  her 
thus,  at  this  age,  ruling  to  a  certain  extent  the  lives 
of  grown-up  men  and  women  by  means  of  a  charm, 
a  mystery,  a  personality  essentially  gay  and  frank, 
yet,  owing  to  the  circumstances  of  her  life,  invested 
with  a  morbid,  almost  supernatural  atmosphere.  The 
trouble  in  the  upper  part  of  her  spine,  pronounced  in- 


STELLA    MARIS  3 

curable  by  the  faculty,  compelled  a  position  rigidly 
supine.  Her  bed,  ingeniously  castored,  could  be 
wheeled  about  the  great  room.  Sometimes  she  lay 
enthroned  in  the  centre;  more  often  it  was  brought 
up  close  to  one  of  the  two  windows,  so  that  she  could 
look  out  to  sea  and  feed  her  fancy  on  the  waves,  and 
the  ships  passing  up  and  down  the  Channel,  and  the 
white  sea-gulls  flashing  their  wings  in  mid  air.  But 
only  this  unvibrating  movement  was  permitted.  For 
all  the  splints  and  ambulance  contrivances  in  the 
world,  she  could  not  be  carried  into  another  room, 
or  into  the  pleasant,  sloping  garden  of  the  Channel 
House,  for  a  jar  would  have  been  fatal.  The  one 
room,  full  of  air  and  sunlight  and  sweet  odours  and 
exquisite  appointments,  was  the  material  kingdom  in 
which  she  ruled  with  sweet  autocracy;  the  welter  of 
sea  and  sky  was  her  kingdom,  too,  the  gulls  and  spring 
and  autumn  flights  of  migratory  birds  were  her  sub- 
jects, the  merchants  and  princes  traversing  the  deep 
in  ships,  her  tributaries. 

But  this  was  a  kingdom  of  Faerie,  over  which  she 
ruled  by  the  aid  of  Ariels  and  Nereids  and  other  such 
elemental  and  intangible  ministers.  The  latter  had 
a  continuous  history,  dreamy  and  romantic,  episodes 
of  which  she  would  in  rare  moments  relate  to  her 
Great  High  Belovedest  and  her  Great  High  Favourite ; 
but  ordinarily  the  two  young  men  were  admitted  only 
into  the  material  kingdom,  where,  however,  they  bent 
the  knee  with  curious  humility.  To  them,  all  she 
seemed  to  have  of  human  semblance  was  a  pair  of 
frail  arms,  a  daintily  curved  neck,  a  haunting  face, 
and  a  mass  of  dark  hair  encircling  it  on  the  pillow 
like  a  nimbus.  The  face  was  small,  delicately  fea- 
tured, but  the  strong  sea  air  maintained  a  tinge  of 
colour  in  it;  her  mouth,  made  for  smiles  and  kisses, 
justified  in  practice  its  formation;  her  eyes,  large  and 


4  STELLA    MARIS 

round  and  of  deepest  brown,  sometimes  glowed  with 
the  laughter  of  the  child,  sometimes  seemed  to  hold 
in  their  depths  holy  mysteries,  gleams  of  things  hidden 
and  divine,  unsealed  revelations  of  another  world,  be- 
fore which  the  two  young  men,  each  sensitive  in  his 
peculiar  fashion,  bowed  their  young  and  impression- 
able heads.  When  they  came  down  to  commonplace, 
it  was  her  serene  happiness  that  mystified  them.  She 
gave  absolute  acceptance  to  the  conditions  of  her  ex- 
istence, as  though  no  other  conditions  were  desirable 
or  acceptable.  She  was  delicate  joyousness  just  in- 
carnate and  no  more — "the  music  from  the  hyacinth 
bell,"  said  Herold.  In  the  early  days  of  his  acquaint- 
ance with  Stellamaris,  Herold  was  young,  fresh  from 
the  university,  practising  every  one  of  the  arts  with 
feverish  simultaneousness  and  mimetic  in  each;  so 
when  he  waxed  poetical,  he  made  use  of  Shelley. 

Stella  was  an  orphan,  both  her  parents  having  died 
before  the  obscure  spinal  disease  manifested  it- 
self. To  the  child  they  were  vague,  far-off  memo- 
ries. In  loco  parentium,  and  trustees  of  her  fortune, 
were  the  uncle  and  aunt  above  mentioned.  Sir  Oliver, 
as  a  young  man,  had  distinguished  himself  so  far  in 
the  colonial  service  as  to  obtain  his  K.C.M.G.  As  a 
man  nearing  middle  age,  he  had  so  played  the  fool 
with  a  governorship  as  to  be  recalled  and  permanently 
shelved.  To  the  end  of  his  days  Sir  Oliver  was  a 
man  with  a  grievance.  His  wife,  publicly  siding  with 
him,  and  privately  resentful  against  him,  was  a  woman 
with  two  grievances.  Now,  one  grievance  on  one 
side  and  two  on  the  other,  instead  of  making  three, 
according  to  the  rules  of  arithmetic,  made  legion,  ac- 
cording to  the  law  of  the  multiplication  of  griev- 
ances. Even  Herold,  the  Optimist,  introduced  by  his 
college  friend  John  Risca  into  the  intimacies  of  the 
household,  could  not  call  them  a  happy  couple.  In 


STELLA    MARIS  5 

company  they  treated  each  other  with  chilling  cour- 
tesy; before  the  servants  they  bickered  very  slightly; 
when  they  wanted  to  quarrel,  they  retired,  with  true 
British  decorum,  to  their  respective  apartments  and 
quarreled  over  the  house  telephone. 

There  was  one  spot  on  the  earth,  however,  which 
by  common  consent  they  regarded  as  a  sanctuary,— 
on  whose  threshold  grievances  and  differences  and 
bickerings  and  curses  (his  imperial  career  had  given 
Sir  Oliver  an  imperial  vocabulary)  and  tears  and 
quarrelings  were  left  like  the  earth-stained  shoes  of 
the  Faithful  on  the  threshold  of  a  mosque, — and  that 
was  the  wide  sea-chamber  of  Stellamaris.  That  thres- 
hold crossed,  Sir  Oliver  became  bluff  and  hearty;  on 
Julia,  Lady  Blount,  fell  a  mantle  of  tender  woman- 
hood. They  "my-deared"  and  "my-darlinged"  each 
other  until  the  very  dog  (the  Lord  High  Constable), 
a  Great  Dane,  of  vast  affection  and  courage,  but  of 
limited  intelligence,  whose  post  of  duty  was  beside 
Stella's  couch,  would  raise  his  head  for  a  disgusted 
second  and  sniff  and  snort  from  his  deep  lungs. 
But  dogs  are  dogs,  and  in  their  doggy  way  see  a  lot 
of  the  world  which  is  a  sealed  book  to  humans,  espe- 
cially to  those  who  pass  their  lives  in  a  room  on  the 
top  of  a  cliff  overlooking  the  sea. 

It  was  the  unwritten  law  of  the  house:  Stella's 
room  was  sacrosanct.  An  invisible  spirit  guarded  the 
threshold  and  forbade  entrance  to  anything  evil  or 
mean  or  sordid  or  even  sorrowful,  and  had  inscribed 
on  the  portal  in  unseen,  but  compelling,  characters 

Never  harm  nor  spell  nor  charm 
Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh. 

Whence  came  the  spirit,  from  Stella  herself  or  from 
the  divine  lingering  in  the  faulty  folks  who  made  her 


6  STELLA   MARIS 

world,  who  can  tell?  There  never  was  an  invisible 
spirit  guarding  doors  and  opening  hearts,  since  the 
earth  began,  who  had  not  a  human  genesis.  From 
man  alone,  in  this  myriad-faceted  cosmos,  can  a  com- 
passionate God,  in  the  form  of  angels  and  ministering 
spirits,  be  reflected.  Perhaps  the  radiant  spirit  of  the 
child  herself,  triumphing  over  disastrous  circum- 
stances, instilled  a  sacred  awe  in  those  who  surrounded 
her;  perhaps  the  pathos  of  her  lifelong  condemnation 
stirred  unusual  depths  of  pity.  At  all  events,  the  un- 
written law  was  irrefragable.  Outside  Stella's  door 
the  wicked  must  cast  their  evil  thoughts,  the  gloomy 
shed  their  cloak  of  cloud,  and  the  wretched  unpack 
their  burden  of  suffering.  Whether  it  was  for  the  ulti- 
mate welfare  of  Stellamaris  to  live  in  this  land  of  illu- 
sion is  another  matter. 

"Save  her  from  knowledge  of  pain  and  from  suspi- 
cion of  evil,"  John  Risca  would  cry,  when  discussing 
the  matter.  "Let  us  make  sure  of  one  perfect  flower 
in  this  poisonous  fungus  garden  of  a  world." 

"Great  High  Belovedest,"  Stellamaris  would  say 
when  they  were  alone  together,  "what  about  the  pal- 
ace to-day?" 

And  the  light  would  break  upon  the  young  man's 
grim  face,  and  he  would  tell  her  of  the  palace  in  which 
he  dwelt  in  the  magic  city  of  London. 

"I  have  got  a  beautiful  new  Persian  carpet,"  he 
would  say,  "with  blues  in  it  like  that  band  of  sea  over 
there,  for  the  marble  floor  of  the  vestibule." 

"I  hope  it  matches  the  Gobelin  tapestry." 

"You  couldn't  have  chosen  it  better  yourself,  Stella- 
maris." 

The  great  eyes  looked  at  him  in  humorous  dubiety. 
He  was  wearing  a  faded  mauve  shirt  and  a  flagrantly 
blue  tie. 

"I  am  not  so  sure  of  your  eye  for  colour,  Great  High 


STELLA    MARIS  7 

Belovedest,  and  it  would  be  a  pity  to  have  the  beauti- 
ful palace  spoiled." 

"I  assure  you  that  East  and  West  in  this  instance 
are  blended  in  perfect  harmony." 

"And  how  are  Lilias  and  Niphetos?" 

Lilias  and  Niphetos  were  two  imaginary  Angora 
cats,  nearly  the  size  of  the  Lord  High  Constable,  who 
generally  sat  on  the  newel-posts  of  the  great  marble 
staircase.  They  were  fed  on  chickens'  livers  and 
Devonshire  cream. 

"Arachne,"  he  replied  gravely,  referring  to  a  mythi- 
cal attendant  of  Circassian  beauty — "Arachne  thought 
they  were  suffering  from  ennui,  and  so  she  brought 
them  some  white  mice — and  what  do  you  think  hap- 
pened?" 

"Why,  they  gobbled  them  up,  of  course." 

"That 's  where  you  're  wrong,  Stellamaris.  Those 
aristocratic  cats  turned  up  their  noses  at  them.  They 
looked  at  each  other  pityingly,  as  if  to  say,  'Does  the 
foolish  woman  really  think  we  can  be  amused  by  white 
mice?" 

Stella  laughed.    "Don't  they  ever  have  any  kittens  ?" 

"My  dear,"  said  Risca,  "they  would  die  if  I  sug- 
gested such  a  thing  to  them." 

It  had  been  begun  long  ago,  this  fabulous  history 
of  the  palace,  and  the  beauty  and  luxury  with  which 
he  was  surrounded ;  and  Stella  knew  it  all  to  its  tiniest 
detail — the  names  of  the  roses  in  his  gardens,  the  pic- 
tures on  his  walls,  the  shapes  and  sizes  of  the  orna- 
ments on  his  marquetry  writing-table ;  and  as  her  mem- 
ory was  tenacious  and  he  dared  not  be  caught  tripping, 
his  wonder-house  gradually  crystallized  in  his  mind  to 
the  startling  definiteness  of  a  material  creation.  Its 
suites  of  apartments  and  corridors,  the  decoration  and 
furniture  of  each  room,  became  as  vividly  familiar  as 
the  dreary  abode  in  which  he  really  had  his  being.  He 


8  STELLA    MARIS 

could  wander  about  through  house  and  grounds  with 
unerring  certainty  of  plan.  The  phantom  creatures 
with  whom  he^had  peopled  the  domain  had  become  in- 
vested with  clear-cut  personalities;  he  had  visualized 
them  until  he  could  conjure  up  their  faces  at  will. 

He  had  begun  the  building  of  the  dream  palace  first 
with  the  mere  object  of  amusing  a  sick  child  and  hiding 
from  her  things  forlorn  and  drab;  gradually,  in  the 
course  of  years,  it  had  grown  to  be  almost  a  refuge  for 
the  man  himself.  When  the  child  developed  into  the 
young  girl  he  did  not  undeceive  her.  More  and  more 
was  it  necessary,  if  their  sweet  comradeship  was  to 
last,  that  he  should  extend  the  boundaries  of  her  Land 
of  Illusion;  for  the  high  ambitions  which  had  made 
him  laugh  at  poverty  remained  unsatisfied,  the  promise 
of  life  had  been  hopelessly  broken,  and  he  saw  before 
him  nothing  but  a  stretch  of  dull,  laborious  years  unlit 
by  a  gleam  of  joy.  Only  in  the  sea-chamber  of  Stella- 
maris  was  life  transformed  into  a  glowing  romance. 
Only  there  could  he  inhabit  a  palace  and  walk  the 
sweet,  music-haunted,  fragrant  streets  of  an  apocalyp- 
tic London,  where  all  women  were  fair  and  true,  and 
all  men  were  generous,  and  all  work,  even  his  own 
slavery  at  the  press,  was  noble  and  inspired  by  pure 
ideals. 

"What  exactly  is  your  work,  Belovedest  ?"  she  asked 
one  day. 

He  replied :  "I  teach  the  great  and  good  men  who 
are  the  King's  ministers  of  state  how  to  govern  the 
country.  I  show  philanthropists  how  to  spend  their 
money.  I  read  many  books  and  tell  people  how  beau- 
tiful and  wise  the  books  are,  so  that  people  should 
read  them  and  become  beautiful  and  wise,  too.  Some- 
times I  preach  to  foreign  sovereigns  on  the  way  in 
which  their  countries  should  be  ruled.  I  am  what  is 
called  a  journalist,  dear." 


STELLA    MARIS  9 

"It  must  be  the  most  wonderful  work  in  the  world," 
cried  Stella,  aglow  with  enthusiasm,  "and  they  must 
pay  you  lots  and  lots  of  money." 

"Lots  and  lots." 

"And  how  you  must  love  it — the  work,  I  mean!" 

"Every  hour  spent  in  the  newspaper-office  is  a  dream 
of  delight,"  said  Risca. 

Walter  Herold,  who  happened  to  be  present  during 
this  conversation,  remarked,  with  a  shake  of  his  head, 
as  soon  as  they  had  left  the  room : 

"God  forgive  you,  John,  for  an  amazing  liar!" 

Risca  shrugged  his  round,  thick  shoulders. 

"He  will,"  said  he,  "if  He  has  a  sense  of  humour." 
Then  he  turned  upon  his  friend  somewhat  roughly. 
"What  would  you  have  me  tell  the  child  ?" 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Herold,  "if  you  would  only 
give  the  world  at  large  some  of  the  imaginative  effort 
you  expend  in  that  room,  you  would  not  need  to  wear 
your  soul  to  shreds  in  a  newspaper-office." 

"What  is  the  good  of  telling  me  that?"  growled 
Risca,  the  deep  lines  of  care  returning  to  his  dark, 
loose-featured  face.  "Don't  I  know  it  already?  It's 
just  the  irony  of  things.  There  's  an  artist  somewhere 
about  me.  If  there  was  n't,  why  should  I  have  wanted 
to  write  novels  and  plays  and  poetry  ever  since  I  was 
a  boy?  It  's  a  question  of  outlet.  There  are  women 
I  know  who  can't  do  a  blessed  thing  except  write  let- 
ters; there  they  find  their  artistic  outlet.  I  can  find 
my  artistic  outlet  only  in  telling  lies  to  Stella.  Would 
you  deny  me  that?" 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Herold,  with  a  gay  laugh.  "The 
strain  of  having  to  remember  another  fellow's  lies,  in 
addition  to  one's  own,  is  heavy,  I  admit,  but  for  friend- 
ship's sake  I  can  bear  it.  Only  the  next  time  you  add 
on  a  new  wing  to  that  infernal  house  and  fill  it  with 
majolica  vases,  for  Heaven's  sake  tell  me." 


io  STELLA   MARIS 

For  Herold,  being  Risca's  intimate,  had,  for  corrob- 
orative purposes,  to  be  familiar  with  the  dream  palace, 
and  when  Risca  made  important  additions  or  altera- 
tions without  informing  him,  was  apt  to  be  sore  beset 
with  perplexities  during  his  next  interview  with  Stella- 
maris.  But  being  an  actor  by  profession  (at  the  same 
time  being  an  amateur  in  all  other  arts),  he  was  quick 
to  interpret  another  man's  dream,  and  once,  being 
rather  at  a  loss,  improved  on  his  author  and  interpo- 
lated a  billiard-room,  much  to  Risca's  disgust.  Where 
the  deuce,  he  asked,  in  angry  and  childlike  seriousness, 
was  there  a  place  for  a  billiard-room  in  his  palace? 
Did  n't  he  know  the  whole  lay-out  of  the  thing  by  this 
time?  It  was  inexcusable  impertinence! 

"Then  why  did  n't  you  tell  me  about  the  music- 
room?"  cried  Herold,  hotly,  on  this  particular  occa- 
sion. "How  should  I  guess  that  an  unmusical  dog 
like  you  would  want  a  music-room?  In  order  not  to 
give  you  away,  I  had  to  invent  the  billiard-room.  A 
rotten  house  without  a  billiard-room!" 

"I  suppose  you  think  it  's  a  commodious  mansion, 
with  five  reception-rooms,  fourteen  bedrooms  and 
baths,  hot  and  cold." 

The  two  men  nearly  quarreled. 

But  no  hard  words  followed  the  discussion  of 
Risca's  rose-coloured  and  woefully  ironical  description 
of  his  work.  Herold  knew  what  pains  of  hell  had 
got  round  ab6ut  the  man  he  loved,  and  strove  to  miti- 
gate them  with  gaiety  and  affection.  And  while  the 
Great  High  Belovedest  and  the  Great  High  Favourite 
were  grappling  together  with  a  tragedy  not  referred 
to  in  speech  between  them,  and  as  remote  from  Stella's 
purview  of  life  as  the  Lupanaria  of  Hong-Kong,  she, 
with  her  white  hand  on  the  head  of  the  blue  Great 
Dane,  who  regarded  her  with  patient,  topaz  eyes, 
looked  out  from  her  western  window,  over  the  chan- 


STELLA    MARIS  n 

nel,  on  the  gold  and  crimson  lake  and  royal  purple  of 
the  sunset,  and  built  out  of  the  masses  of  gloried 
cloud  and  streaks  of  lapis  lazuli  and  daffodil  gem  a 
castle  of  dreams  compared  with  which  poor  John  Ris- 
ca's  trumpery  palace,  with  its  Arachnes  and  Liliases 
and  Niphetoses,  was  only  a  vulgar  hotel  in  a  new  and 
perky  town. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  judge  pronounced  sentence :  three  years'  pe- 
nal servitude.  The  condemned  woman,  ashen- 
cheeked,  thin-lipped,  gave  never  a  glance  to 
right  or  left,  and  disappeared  from  the  dock  like  a 
ghost. 

John  Risca,  the  woman's  husband,  who  had  been 
sitting  at  the  solicitor's  table,  rose,  watched  her  disap- 
pear, and  then,  the  object  of  all  curious  eyes,  with 
black  brow  and  square  jaw  strode  out  of  the  court. 
Walter  Herold,  following  him,  joined  him  in  the  cor- 
ridor, and  took  his  arm  in  a  protective  way  and  guided 
him  down  the  great  staircase  into  the  indifferent  street. 
Then  he  hailed  a  cab. 

"May  I  come  with  you?" 

Risca  nodded  assent.  It  was  a  comfort  to  feel  by 
his  side  something  human  in  this  pandemonium  of  a 
world. 

"Eighty-four  Fenton  Square,  Westminster."  Her- 
old gave  the  address  of  Risca's  lodgings,  and  entered 
the  cab.  During  the  journey  through  the  wide  thor- 
oughfares hurrying  with  London's  afternoon  traffic 
neither  spoke.  There  are  ghastly  tragedies  in  life  for 
which  words,  however  sympathetic  and  comprehend- 
ing, are  ludicrously  inadequate.  Now  and  then  Herold 
glanced  at  the  heavy,  set  face  of  the  man  who  was  dear 
to  him  and  cursed  below  his  breath.  Of  course  noth- 
ing but  morbid  pig-headedness  in  the  first  fatal  in- 
stance had  brought  him  to  this  disaster.  But,  after 
all,  is  pig-headedness  a  crime  meriting  so  overwhelm- 

12 


STELLA    MARIS  13 

ing  a  punishment?  Why  should  fortune  favour  some, 
like  himself,  who  just  danced  lightly  upon  life,  and 
take  a  diabolical  delight  in  breaking  others  upon  her 
wheel?  Was  it  because  John  Risca  could  dance  no 
better  than  a  bull,  and,  like  a  bull,  charged  through 
life  insensately,  with  lowered  horns  and  blundering 
hoofs?  This  lunatic  marriage,  six  years  ago,  when 
Risca  was  three  and  twenty,  with  a  common  landlady's 
commoner  pretty  vixen  of  a  daughter,  he  himself  had 
done  his  best  to  prevent.  He  had  pleaded  with  the 
tongue  of  an  angel  and  vituperated  in  the  vocabulary 
of  a  bargee.  He  might  as  well  have  played  "Home, 
Sweet  Home,"  on  the  flute  or  recited  Bishop  Ernul- 
phus's  curse  to  the  charging  bull.  But  still,  however 
unconsidered,  honourable  marriage  ought  not  of  itself 
to  bring  down  from  heaven  the  doom  of  the  house  of 
Atreus.  This  particular  union  was  bound  to  be  un- 
happy; but  why  should  it  have  been  ^schylean  in  its 
catastrophe  ? 

As  Risca  uttered  no  word,  Herold,  with  the  ultimate 
wisdom  of  despair,  held  his  peace. 

At  last  they  arrived  at  the  old-world,  dilapidated 
square,  where  Risca  lodged.  Children,  mostly  dirty- 
faced,  those  of  the  well-to-do  being  distinguished  at 
this  post-tea  hour  of  the  afternoon  by  a  circle  of  trea- 
cle encrusting  like  gems  the  circumambient  grime  about 
their  little  mouths,  squabbled  shrilly  on  the  pavement. 
Torn  oilcloth  and  the  smell  of  the  sprats  fried  the  night 
before  last  for  the  landlord's  supper  greeted  him  who 
entered  the  house.  Risca,  the  aristocrat  of  the  estab- 
lishment, rented  the  drawing-room  floor.  Herold,  sen- 
sitive artist,  successful  actor,  appreciated  by  dramatic 
authors  and  managers  and  the  public  as  a  Meissonier 
of  small  parts,  and  therefore  seldom  out  of  an  en- 
gagement, who  had  created  for  himself  a  Queen  Anne 
gem  of  a  tiny  house  in  Kensington,  could  never  enter 


i4  STELLA    MARIS 

Risca's  home  without  a  shiver.  To  him  it  was  hor- 
ror incarnate,  the  last  word  of  unpenurious  squalor. 
There  were  material  shapes  to  sit  down  upon,  to  sit  at, 
it  is  true,  things  on  the  walls  (terribilia  irisu)  to  look 
upon,  such  as  "The  Hunter's  Return,"  and  early  por- 
traits of  Queen  Victoria  and  the  Prince  Consort,  and 
the  floor  was  covered  with  a  red-and-green  imitation 
Oriental  carpet ;  but  there  was  no  furniture,  as  Herold 
understood  the  word,  nothing  to  soothe  or  to  please. 
One  of  the  chairs  was  of  moth-eaten  saddle-bag,  an- 
other of  rusty  leather.  A  splotch  of  grease,  the  trace 
left  by  a  far-distant  storm  of  gravy  that  had  occurred 
on  a  super-imposed  white  cloth,  and  a  splotch  of  ink 
gave  variety  to  a  faded  old  table-cover.  A  litter  of 
books  and  papers  and  unemptied  ash-trays  and  pipes 
and  slippers  disfigured  the  room.  The  place  suggested 
chaos  coated  with  mildew. 

"Ugh!"  said  Herold,  on  entering,  "it  's  as  cold  as 
charity.  Do  you  mind  if  I  light  the  fire?" 

It  was  a  raw  day  in  March,  and  the  draughts  from 
the  staircase  and  windows  played  spitefully  about  the 
furniture.  Risca  nodded,  threw  his  hat  on  a  leather 
couch  against  the  wall,  and  flung  himself  into  his  writ- 
ing-chair. Hot  or  cold,  what  did  it  matter  to  him? 
What  would  anything  in  the  world  matter  to  him  in 
the  future  ?  He  sat,  elbows  on  table,  his  hands  clutch- 
ing his  coarse,  black  hair,  his  eyes  set  in  a  great  agony. 
And  there  he  stayed  for  a  long  time,  silent  and  mo- 
tionless, while  Herold  lit  the  fire,  and,  moving  noise- 
lessly about  the  room,  gave  to  its  disarray  some  sem- 
blance of  comfort.  He  was  twenty-nine.  It  was  the 
end  of  his  career,  the  end  of  his  life.  No  mortal  man 
could  win  through  such  devastating  shame.  It  was  a 
bath  of  vitriol  eating  through  nerve  and  fibre  to  the 
heart  itself.  He  was  a  dead  man — dead  to  all  the  vital 
things  of  life  at  nine-and-twenty.  An  added  torture 


STELLA    MARIS  15 

was  his  powerlessness  to  feel  pity  for  the  woman.  For 
the  crime  of  which  she  had  been  convicted,  the  satiat- 
ing of  the  lust  of  cruelty,  mankind  finds  no  extenua- 
tion. She  had  taken  into  her  house,  as  a  slut  of  all 
work,  a  helpless  child  from  an  orphanage.  Tales  had 
been  told  in  that  court  at  which  men  grew  physically 
sick  and  women  fainted.  Her  counsel's  plea  of  in- 
sanity had  failed.  She  was  as  sane  as  any  creature 
with  such  a  lust  could  be.  She  was  condemned  to  three 
years'  penal  servitude. 

It  was  his  wife,  the  woman  whom  he,  John  Risca, 
had  married  six  years  before,  the  woman  whom,  in 
his  passionate,  obstinate,  growling  way,  he  had  thought 
he  loved.  They  had  been  parted  for  over  four  years, 
it  is  true,  for  she  had  termagant  qualities  that  would 
have  driven  away  any  partner  of  her  life  who  had  not 
a  morbid  craving  for  Phlegethon  as  a  perpetual  envi- 
ronment; but  she  bore  his  name,  an  honoured  one  (he 
thanked  God  she  had  given  him  no  child  to  bear  it, 
too ) ,  and  now  that  name  was  held  up  to  the  execration 
of  all  humanity.  For  the  name's  sake,  when  the  un- 
imagined  horror  had  first  broken  over  him,  he  had 
done  his  utmost  to  shield  her.  He  had  met  her  in 
the  prison,  for  the  first  time  since  their  parting,  and 
she  had  regarded  him  with  implacable  hatred,  though 
she  accepted  the  legal  assistance  he  provided,  as  she 
had  accepted  the  home  from  which  he  had  been  driven 
and  the  half  of  his  poor  earnings. 

Murder,  clean  and  final,  would  have  been  more  eas- 
ily borne  than  this,  the  deliberate,  systematically 
planned  torture  of  a  child.  There  is  some  sort  of 
tragic  dignity  in  murder.  It  is  generally  preceded  by 
conflict,  and  the  instinct  of  mankind  recognizing  in 
conflict,  no  matter  how  squalid  and  sordid,  the  essence 
of  drama,  very  often  finds  sympathy  with  the  protag- 
onist of  the  tragedy,  the  slayer  himself.  How  other- 


1 6  STELLA   MARIS 

wise  to  account  for  the  petitions  for  the  reprieve  of  a 
popular  murderer,  a  curious  phenomenon  not  to  be 
fully  explained  by  the  comforting  word  hysteria  ?  But 
in  devilish  cruelty,  unpreceded  by  conflict,  there  is  no 
drama,  there  is  nothing  to  touch  the  imagination;  it 
is  perhaps  the  only  wickedness  with  which  men  have 
no  lingering  sympathy.  It  transcends  all  others  in 
horror. 

"Murder  would  have  been  better  than  this,"  he  said 
aloud,  opening  and  shutting  his  powerful  fists.  "My 
soul  has  been  dragged  through  a  sewer." 

He  rose  and  flung  the  window  open  and  breathed 
the  raw  air  with  full  lungs.  A  news-urchin's  cry 
caused  him  to  look  down  into  the  street.  The  boy, 
expectant,  held  out  a  paper,  and  pointed  with  it  to 
the  yellow  bill  which  he  carried  apronwise  in  front  of 
him.  On  the  bill  was  printed  in  large  capitals :  "The 
Risca  Torture  Case.  Verdict  and  Sentence."  Risca 
beckoned  Herold  to  the  window,  and  clutched  him 
heavily  on  the  shoulder. 

"Look !"  said  he.  "That  is  to  be  seen  this  afternoon 
in  every  street  in  London.  To-night  the  news  will  be 
flashed  all  round  the  world.  To-morrow  the  civilized 
press  will  reek  with  it.  Come  away!"  He  dragged 
Herold  back,  and  brought  down  the  window  with  a 
crash.  "It  's  blazing  hell !"  he  said. 

"Every  man  has  to  pass  through  it  at  least  once  in 
his  life,"  said  Herold,  glad  that  the  relief  of  speech 
had  come  to  his  friend.  "That  is,  if  he  's  to  be  any 
good  in  the  world." 

Risca  uttered  a  grim  sound  in  the  nature  of  a  mirth- 
less laugh.  "  'As  gold  is  tried  by  the  fire,  so  souls  are 
tried  by  pain/  "  he  quoted  with  a  sneer.  "Was  ever 
a  man  consoled  by  such  drivelling  maxims  ?  And  they 
are  lies.  No  man  can  be  better  for  having  gone 
through  hell.  It  blasts  everything  that  is  good  in  one. 


STELLA    MARTS  17 

Besides,  what  do  you  know?  You've  never  been 
through  it." 

Herold,  standing  by  the  fire,  broke  a  black  mass  of 
coal  with  the  heel  of  his  boot.  The  flames  sprang  up, 
and  in  the  gathering  twilight  threw  strange  gleams 
over  his  thin,  eager  face. 

"I  shall,  one  of  these  days,"  said  he — "a  very  bad 
hell." 

"Good  God!  Wallie,"  cried  Risca,  "are  you  in  trou- 
ble, too?" 

"Not  yet,"  Herold  replied,  with  a  smile,  for  he  saw 
that  the  instinct  of  friendship,  at  any  rate,  had  not 
been  consumed.  "I  've  walked  on  roses  all  my  life. 
That  's  why  I  've  never  done  anything  great.  But 
my  hell  is  before  me.  How  can  I  escape  it?"  The 
smile  faded  from  his  face,  and  he  looked  far  away 
into  the  gray  sky.  "Sometimes  my  mother's  Celtic 
nature  seems  to  speak  and  prophesy  within  me.  It 
tells  me  that  my  roses  shall  turn  into  red-hot  plough- 
shares and  my  soul  shall  be  on  fire.  The  curtains  of 
the  future  are  opened  for  an  elusive  fraction  of  a  sec- 
ond— "  He  broke  off  suddenly.  "I  'm  talking  rot, 
John.  At  least  it  's  not  all  rot.  I  was  only  thinking 
that  in  my  bad  time  I  should  have  a  great,  strong 
friend  to  stand  by  my  side." 

"If  you  mean  me,"  said  Risca,  "you  know  I  shall. 
But,  in  the  meanwhile  I  pray  to  God  to  spare  you  a 
hell  like  mine.  Sometimes  I  wonder,"  he  continued 
after  a  gloomy  pause,  "whether  this  would  have  hap- 
pened if  I  had  stuck  by  her.  I  could  have  seen  which 
way  things  were  tending,  and  I  would  have  stepped 
in.  After  all,  I  am  strong  enough  to  have  borne  it." 

"You  were  talking  about  murder  just  now,"  said 
Herold.  "If  you  had  stayed  with  her,  there  would 
have  been  murder  done  or  something  precious  near  it." 

Risca  sighed.     He  was  a  big,  burly  man,  with  a 


1 8  STELLA   MARIS 

heavy,  intellectual  face,  prematurely  furrowed,  and  a 
sigh  shook  his  loose  frame  somewhat  oddly.  "I  don't 
know,"  said  he,  after  a  lumbering  turn  or  so  up  and 
down  the  room.  "How  can  any  man  know?  She 
was  impossible  enough,  but  I  never  dreamed  of  such 
developments.  And  now  that  I  reflect,  I  remember 
signs.  Once  we  had  a  little  dog — no,  I  have  no  right 
to  tell  you.  Damn  it !  man,"  he  cried  fiercely,  "I  have 
no  right  to  keep  you  here  in  this  revolting  atmos- 
phere." He  picked  up  Herold's  hat.  "Go  away,  Wai- 
lie,  and  leave  me  to  myself.  You  're  good  and  kind 
and  all  that,  but  I  've  no  right  to  make  your  life  a 
burden  to  you." 

Herold  rescued  his  hat  and  deliberately  put  it  down. 
"Oh,  yes,  you  have,"  said  he,  with  smiling  seri- 
ousness. "You  have  every  right.  Have  you  ever 
considered  the  ethics  of  friendship?  Few  people  do 
consider  them  nowadays.  Existence  has  grown  so 
complicated  that  such  a  simple,  primitive  thing  as 
friendship  is  apt  to  be  neglected  in  the  practical  phi- 
losophy of  life.  Our  friendship,  John,  is  something 
I  could  no  more  tear  out  of  me  than  I  could  tear  out 
my  heart  itself.  It  's  one  of  the  few  vital,  real  things 
— indeed,  it  's  perhaps  the  only  tremendous  thing  in 
my  damfool  of  a  life.  I  believe  in  friendship.  If  a 
man  hath  not  a  friend,  let  him  quit  the  stage.  Old 
Bacon  had  sense :  a  man  has  every  right  over  his 
friend,  every  claim  upon  him,  except  the  right  of  be- 
trayal. My  purse  is  yours,  your  purse  is  mine.  My 
time  is  yours,  and  yours  mine.  My  joys  and  sor- 
rows are  yours,  and  yours  mine.  But  a  friend  may 
not  supplant  a  friend  either  in  material  ambition  or 
in  the  love  of  a  woman.  That  is  the  unforgivable 
sin,  high  treason  against  friendship.  Don't  talk  folly 
about  having  no  right." 

He  lit  with  nervous  fingers  the  cigarette  he  was 


STELLA   MARIS  19 

about  to  light  when  he  began  his  harangue.  Risca 
gripped  him  by  the  arm. 

"God  knows  I  don't  want  you  to  go.  I  'm  pretty 
tough,  and  I  'm  not  going  to  cave  in,  but  it  's  God's 
comfort  to  have  you  here.  If  I  'm  not  a  merry  com- 
panion to  you,  what  the  devil  do  you  think  I  am  to 
myself?" 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  dreary  room,  on  which 
the  dark  of  evening  had  fallen.  At  last  he  paused  by 
his  writing-table,  and  then  a  sudden  thought  flashing 
on  him,  he  smote  his  temples  with  his  hands. 

"I  must  send  you  away,  Wallie.  It  's  necessary.  I 
have  my  column  to  write  for  The  Herald.  It  must  be 
in  by  eleven.  I  had  forgotten  all  about  it.  They 
won't  want  my  name, — it  would  damn  the  paper, — 
but  I  suppose  they  're  counting  on  the  column,  and  I 
don't  want  to  leave  them  in  the  lurch." 

"They  don't  want  your  column  this  week,  at  any 
rate,"  said  Herold.  "Oh,  don't  begin  to  bellow.  I 
went  to  see  Ferguson  yesterday.  He  's  as  kind  as  can 
be,  and  of  course  wants  you  to  go  on  as  usual.  But 
no  one  except  a  raving  idiot  would  expect  stuff  from 
you  to-day.  And  as  for  your  silly  old  column,  I  've 
written  it  myself.  I  suggested  it  to  Ferguson,  and  he 
jumped  at  it." 

"You  wrote  my  column?"  said  Risca,  in  a  softened 
voice. 

"Of  course  I  did,  and  a  devilish  good  column,  too. 
Do  you  think  I  can  only  paint  my  face  and  grin 
through  a  horse-collar?" 

"What  made  you  think  of  it  ?    I  did  n't." 

"That  's  precisely  why  I  did,"  said  Herold. 

Risca  sat  down,  calmer  in  mood,  and  lit  a  pipe. 
Herold,  the  sensitive,  accepted  this  action  as  an  impli- 
cation of  thanks.  Risca  puffed  his  tobacco  for  a  few 
moments  in  silence,  apparently  absorbed  in  enjoyment 


20  STELLA   MARIS 

of  the  fragrant  subtleties  of  the  mixture  of  honeydew 
and  birdseye  and  latakia  and  the  suspicion  of  soolook 
that  gives  mystery  to  a  blend.  At  last  he  spoke. 

"I  shall  arrange  to  keep  on  that  house  in  Smith 
Street,  and  put  in  a  caretaker,  so  that  she  shall  have 
a  home  when  she  comes  out.  What  will  happen  then, 
God  Almighty  knows.  Perhaps  she  will  have  changed. 
We  need  n't  discuss  it.  But,  at  any  rate,  while  I  'm 
away,  I  want  you  to  see  to  it  for  me.  It  's  a  ghastly 
task,  but  some  one  must  undertake  it.  Will  you?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Herold.  "But  what  do  you  mean 
by  being  'away'  ?" 

"I  am  going  to  Australia,"  said  Risca. 

"For  how  long?" 

"For  the  rest  of  my  life,"  said  Risca. 

Herold  leaped  from  his  chair  and  threw  his  ciga- 
rette into  the  fire.  It  was  only  John  Risca  who,  with- 
out giving  warning,  would  lower  his  head  and  charge 
at  life  in  that  fashion. 

"This  is  madness." 

"It 's  my  only  chance  of  sanity,"  said  Risca.  "Here 
I  am  a  dead  man.  The  flames  are  too  much  for  me. 
Perhaps  in  another  country,  where  I  'm  not  known, 
some  kind  of  a  phoenix  called  John  Smith  or  Robinson 
may  rise  out  of  the  ashes.  Here  it  can't.  Here  the 
ashes  would  leave  a  stench  that  would  asphyxiate  any 
bird,  however  fabulous.  It 's  my  one  chance — to  begin 
again." 

"What  will  you  do?" 

"The  same  as  here.  If  I  can  make  a  fair  living  in 
London,  I  ought  n't  to  starve  in  Melbourne." 

"It's  monstrous!"  cried  Herold.  "It's  not  to  be 
thought  of." 

"Just  so,"  replied  Risca.     "It 's  got  to  be  done." 

Herold  glanced  at  the  gloomy  face,  and  threw  up 
his  hands  in  despair.  When  John  Risca  spoke  in  that 


STELLA    MARIS  21 

stubborn  way  there  was  no  moving  him.  He  had  taken 
it  into  his  head  to  go  to  Australia,  and  to  Australia 
he  would  go  despite  all  arguments  and  beseechings. 
Yet  Herold  argued  and  besought.  It  was  monstrous 
that  a  man  of  John's  brilliant  attainments  and  deeply 
rooted  ambitions  should  surrender  the  position  in  Lon- 
don which  he  had  so  hardly  won.  London  was  gen- 
erous, London  was  just ;  in  the  eyes  of  London  he  was 
pure  and  blameless.  Not  an  editor  would  refuse  him 
work,  not  an  acquaintance  would  refuse  him  the  right 
hand  of  fellowship.  The  heart  of  every  friend  was 
open  to  him.  As  for  the  agony  of  his  soul,  he  would 
carry  that  about  with  him  wherever  he  went.  He  could 
not  escape  from  it  by  going  to  the  antipodes.  It  was 
more  likely  to  be  conjured  away  in  England  by  the 
love  of  those  about  him. 

"I  'm  aware  of  all  that,  but  I  'm  going  to  Mel- 
bourne," said  Risca,  doggedly.  "If  I  stay  here,  I  'm 
dead." 

"When  do  you  propose  to  start  ?" 

"I  shall  take  my  ticket  to-morrow  on  the  first  avail- 
able boat." 

Herold  laid  his  nervous  hand  on  the  other's  burly 
shoulder. 

"Is  it  fair  in  this  reckless  way  to  spring  such  a  tre- 
mendous decision  on  those  who  care  for  you?" 

"Who  on  God's  earth  really  cares  .for  me  except 
yourself?  It  will  be  a  wrench  parting  from  you,  but 
it  has  to  be." 

"You  Ve  forgotten  Stellamaris,"  said  Herold. 

"I  have  n't,"  replied  Risca,  morosely;  "but  she  's 
only  a  child.  She  looks  upon  me  as  a  creature  out  of 
a  fairy-tale.  Realities,  thank  God!  have  no  place  in 
that  room  of  hers.  I  '11  soon  fade  out  of  her 
mind." 

"Stella  is  fifteen,  not  five,"  said  Herold. 


22  STELLA    MARIS 

"Age  makes  no  difference,  I  'm  not  going  to  see 
her  again,"  said  he. 

"What  explanation  is  to  be  given  her?" 

"I  '11  write  the  necessary  fairy-story." 

"You  are  not  going  to  see  her  before  you  sail  ?" 

"No,"  said  Risca. 

"Then  you  '11  be  doing  a  damnably  cowardly 
thing,"  cried  Herold,  with  flashing  eyes. 

Risca  rose  and  glared  at  his  friend. 

"You  fool!  Do  you  suppose  I  don't  care  for  her? 
Do  you  suppose  I  would  n't  cut  off  my  hand  to  save 
her  pain?" 

"Then  cut  off  some  of  your  infernal  selfishness  and 
save  her  the  pain  she  's  going  to  feel  if  you  don't  bid 
her  good-bye." 

Risca  clenched  his  fists,  and  turned  to  the  window, 
and  stood  with  his  back  to  the  room. 

"Take  care  what  you  're  saying.  It  's  dangerous 
to  quarrel  with  me  to-day." 

"Danger  be  hanged!"  said  Herold.  "I  tell  you  it 
will  be  selfish  and  cowardly  not  to  see  her." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  At  last  Risca  wheeled 
round  abruptly. 

"I  'm  neither  selfish  nor  cowardly.  You  don't  seem 
to  realize  what  I  've  gone  through.  I  'm  not  fit  to 
enter  her  presence.  I  'm  polluted.  I  'm  a  walking 
pestilence.  I  told  you  my  soul  had  been  dragged 
through  a  sewer." 

"Then  go  and  purify  it  in  the  sea-wind  that  blows 
through  Stella's  window,  John,"  said  Herold,  seeing 
that  he  had  subdued  his  anger.  "I  am  not  such  a  fool 
as  to  ask  you  to  give  up  your  wretched  idea  of  exile 
for  the  sake  of  our  friendship;  but  this  trivial  point, 
in  the  name  of  our  friendship,  I  ask  you  to  concede  to 
me.  Just  grant  me  this,  and  I  '11  let  you  go  to  Mel- 


STELLA   MARIS  23 

bourne  or  Trincomalee  or  any  other  Hades  you  choose 
without  worrying  you." 

"Why  do  you  insist  upon  it  ?  How  can  a  sick  child's 
fancies  count  to  a  man  in  such  a  position  ?" 

His  dark  eyes  glowered  at  Herold  from  beneath 
lowering  brows.  Herold  met  the  gaze  steadily,  and 
with  his  unclouded  vision  he  saw  far  deeper  into  Risca 
than  Risca  saw  into  him.  He  did  not  answer  the  ques- 
tion, for  he  penetrated,  through  the  fuliginous  vapours 
whence  it  proceeded,  into  the  crystal  regions  of  the 
man's  spirit.  It  was  he,  after  a  while,  who  held  Risca 
with  his  eyes,  and  it  was  all  that  was  beautiful  and 
spiritual  in  Risca  that  was  held.  And  then  Herold 
reached  out  his  hand  slowly  and  touched  him. 

"We  go  down  to  Southcliff  together." 

Risca  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"Let  us  go  this  evening,"  said  he. 

A  few  hours  afterward  when  the  open  cab  taking 
them  from  the  station  to  the  Channel  House  came  by 
the  sharp  turn  of  the  road  abruptly  to  the  foot  of  the 
cliff,  and  the  gusty  southwest  wind  brought  the  haunt- 
ing smell  of  the  seaweed  into  his  nostrils,  and  he  saw 
the  beacon-light  in  the  high  west  window  shining  like 
a  star,  a  gossamer  feather  from  the  wings  of  Peace 
fell  upon  the  man's  tortured  soul. 


CHAPTER  III 

IT  will  be  remembered  that  Stellamaris  was  a  young 
person  of  bountiful  fortune.  She  had  stocks  and 
shares  and  mortgages  and  landed  property  faith- 
fully administered  under  a  deed  of  trust.  The  Chan- 
nel House  and  all  that  therein  was,  except  Sir  Oliver 
and  Lady  Blount's  grievances,  belonged  to  her.  She 
knew  it ;  she  had  known  it  almost  since  infancy.  The 
sense  of  ownership  in  which  she  had  grown  up  had 
its  effect  on  her  character,  giving  her  the  equipoise  of 
a  young  reigning  princess,  calm  and  serene  in  her  un- 
disputed position.  In  her  childish  days  her  material 
kingdom  was  limited  to  the  walls  of  her  sea-chamber; 
but  as  the  child  expanded  into  the  young  girl,  so  ex- 
panded her  conception  of  the  limits  of  her  kingdom. 
And  with  this  widening  view  came  gradually  and  cu- 
riously the  consciousness  that  though  her  uncle  and 
aunt  were  exquisitely  honoured  and  beloved  agents 
who  looked  to  the  welfare  of  her  realm,  yet  they  could 
not  relieve  her  of  certain  gracious  responsibilities.  In- 
stinctively, and  with  imperceptible  gradations,  she  be- 
gan to  make  her  influence  felt  in  the  house  itself.  But 
it  was  an  influence  in  the  spiritual  and  not  material 
sense  of  the  word;  the  hovering  presence  and  not  the 
controlling  hand. 

When,  shortly  after  the  arrival  of  the  two  men, 
Walter  Herold  went  up  to  his  room,  he  found  a  great 
vase  of  daffodils  on  his  dressing-table  and  a  pencilled 
note  from  Stella  in  her  unformed  handwriting,  for 

24 


STELLA    MARIS  25 

one  cannot  learn  to  write  copper-plate  when  one  lies 
forever  on  the  flat  of  one's  back. 

Great  High  Favourite:  Here  are  some  daffodils, 
because  they  laugh  and  dance  like  you. 

STELLAMARIS. 

And  on  his  dressing-table  John  Risca  found  a  mass 
of  snowdrops  and  a  note : 

Great  High  Belovedest:  A  beautiful  white  silver 
cloud  came  to  my  window  to-day,  and  I  wished  I  could 
tear  it  in  half  and  save  you  a  bit  for  the  palace.  But 
snowdrops  are  the  nearest  things  I  could  think  of  in- 
stead. Your  telegram  was  a  joy.  Love.  S. 

Beside  the  bowl  of  flowers  was  another  note : 

/  heard  the  wheels  of  your  chariot,  but  Her  Serene 
High-and-Mightiness  [her  trained  nurse]  says  I  am 
tucked  up  for  the  night  and  can  have  no  receptions, 
levees,  or  interviews.  I  tell  her  she  will  lose  her  title 
and  become  the  Kommon  Kat;  but  she  does  n't  seem  to 
mind.  Oh,  it 's  just  lovely  to  feel  that  you  're  in  the 
house  again.  S. 

Risca  looked  round  the  dainty  room,  his  whenever 
he  chose  to  occupy  it,  and  knew  how  much,  especially 
of  late,  it  held  of  Stellamaris.  It  had  been  redecorated 
a  short  while  before,  and  the  colours  and  the  patterns 
and  all  had  been  her  choice  and  specification. 

The  castle  architect,  a  young  and  fervent  soul 
called  Wratislaw,  a  member  of  the  Art  Workers' 
Guild,  and  a  friend  of  Herold's,  who  had  settled  in 
Southcliff-on-Sea,  and  was  building,  for  the  sake  of  a 


26  STELLA   MARIS 

precarious  livelihood,  hideous  bungalows  which  made 
his  own  heart  sick,  but  his  clients'  hearts  rejoice,  had 
been  called  in  to  advise.  With  Stellamaris,  sovereign 
lady  of  the  house,  aged  fifteen,  he  had  spent  hours  of 
stupefied  and  aesthetic  delight.  He  had  brought  her 
armfuls  of  designs,  cartloads  of  illustrated  books;  and 
the  result  of  it  all  was  that,  with  certain  other  re- 
decorations  in  the  house  with  which  for  the  moment 
we  have  no  concern,  Risca's  room  was  transformed 
from  late-Victorian  solidity  into  early-Georgian  ele- 
gance. The  Adam  Brothers  reigned  in  ceiling  and  cor- 
nice, and  the  authentic  spirit  of  Sheraton,  thanks  to 
the  infatuated  enterprise  of  Wratislaw,  pervaded  the 
furniture.  Yet,  despite  Wratislaw,  although  through 
him  she  had  spoken,  the  presence  of  Stellamaris  per- 
vaded the  room.  On  the  writing-table  lay  a  leather- 
covered  blotter,  with  his  initials,  J.  R.,  stamped  in  gold. 
In  desperate  answer  to  a  childish  question  long  ago, 
he  had  described  the  bedspread  on  his  Parian  marble 
bed  in  the  palace  as  a  thing  of  rosebuds  and  crinkly 
ribbons  tied  up  in  true-lovers'  knots.  On  his  bed  in 
Stella's  house  lay  a  spread  exquisitely  Louis  XV  in 
design. 

Risca  looked  about  the  room.  Yes,  everything  was 
Stella.  And  behold  there  was  one  new  thing,  essen- 
tially Stella,  which  he  had  not  noticed  before.  Surely 
it  had  been  put  there  since  his  last  visit. 

In  her  own  bedroom  had  hung  since  her  imprison- 
ment a  fine  reproduction  of  Watt's  "Hope,"  and,  child 
though  she  was,  she  had  divined,  in  a  child's  unformu- 
lative  way,  the  simple  yet  poignant  symbolism  of  the 
blindfold  figure  seated  on  this  orb  of  land  and  sea, 
with  meek  head  bowed  over  a  broken  lyre,  and  with 
ear  strained  to  the  vibration  of  the  one  remaining 
string.  She  loved  the  picture,  and  with  unconscious 
intuition  and  without  consultation  with  Wratislaw, 


STELLA   MARIS  27 

who  would  have  been  horrified  at  its  domination  of 
his  Adam  room,  had  ordained  that  a  similar  copy- 
should  be  hung  on  the  wall  facing  the  pillow  of  her 
Great  High  Belovedest's  bed. 

The  application  of  the  allegory  to  his  present  state 
of  being  was  startlingly  obvious.  Risca  knitted  a  puz- 
zled brow.  The  new  thing  was  essentially  Stella,  yet 
why  had  she  caused  it  to  be  put  in  his  room  this  day 
of  all  disastrous  days?  Was  it  not  rather  his  cousin 
Julia's  doing  ?  But  such  delicate  conveyance  of  sympa- 
thy was  scarcely  Julia's  way.  A  sudden  dread  stabbed 
him.  Had  Stella  herself  heard  rumours  of  the  tragedy  ? 
He  summoned  Herold,  who  had  a  prescriptive  right  to 
the  adjoining  room. 

"If  any  senseless  fools  have  told  her,  I  '11  murder 
them,"  he  cried. 

"The  creatures  of  the  sunset  told  her — at  least  as 
much  as  it  was  good  for  her  to  know,"  said  Herold. 

"Do  you  mean  that  she  did  it  in  pure  ignorance?" 

"In  the  vulgar  acceptance  of  the  word,  yes,"  smiled 
Herold.  "Do  you  think  that  the  human  brain  is  al- 
ways aware  of  the  working  of  the  divine  spirit?" 

"If  it  's  as  you  say,  it  's  uncanny,"  said  Risca,  un- 
convinced. 

Yet  when  Sir  Oliver  and  Julia  both  assured  him 
that  Stella  never  doubted  his  luxurious  happiness,  and 
that  the  ordering  of  the  picture  was  due  to  no  subtle 
suggestion,  he  had  to  believe  them. 

"You  always  make  the  mistake,  John,  of  thinking 
Stellamaris  mortal,"  said  Herold,  at  the  supper-table, 
for,  on  receipt  of  the  young  men's  telegram,  the 
Blounts  had  deferred  their  dinner  to  the  later  hour  of 
supper.  "You  are  utterly  wrong,"  said  he.  "How  can 
she  be  mortal  when  she  talks  all  day  to  winds  and 
clouds  and  the  sea-children  in  their  cups  of  foam? 
She  's  as  elemental  as  Ariel.  When  she  sleeps,  she  's 


28  STELLA   MARIS 

really  away  on  a  sea-gull's  back  to  the  Isles  of  Magic. 
That  's  why  she  laughs  at  the  dull,  clumsy  old  world 
from  which  she  is  cut  off  in  her  mortal  guise.  What 
are  railway-trains  and  omnibuses  to  her  ?  What  would 
they  be  to  you,  John,  if  you  could  have  a  sea-gull's 
back  whenever  you  wanted  to  go  anywhere?  And 
she  goes  to  places  worth  going  to,  by  George !  What 
could  she  want  with  Charing  Cross  or  the  Boulevard 
des  Italiens?  Fancy  the  nymph  Syrinx  at  a  woman 
writers'  dinner!" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  're  talking  about,  Walter," 
said  Lady  Blount,  whose  mind  was  practical. 

"Syrinx,"  said  Sir  Oliver,  oracularly  (he  was  a  lit- 
tle, shrivelled  man,  to  whose  weak  face  a  white  mous- 
tache and  an  imperial  gave  a  false  air  of  distinction) — 
"Syrinx,"  said  he,  "was  a  nymph  beloved  of  Pan, — 
it  's  a  common  legend  in  Greek  mythology, — and  Pan 
turned  her  into  a  reed." 

"And  then  cut  the  reed  up  into  Pan-pipes,"  cried 
Herold,  eagerly,  "and  made  immortal  music  out  of 
them — just  as  he  makes  immortal  music  out  of 
Stellamaris.  You  see,  John,  it  all  comes  to  the  same 
thing.  Whether  you  call  her  Ariel,  or  Syrinx,  or 
a  Sprite  of  the  Sea,  or  a  Wunderkind  whose  orig- 
inal trail  of  glory-cloud  has  not  faded  into  the  light 
of  common  day,  she  belongs  to  the  Other  People. 
You  must  believe  in  the  Other  People,  Julia;  you 
can't  help  it." 

Lady  Blount  turned  to  him  severely.  Despite  her 
affection  for  him,  she  more  than  suspected  him  of  a 
pagan  pantheism,  which  she  termed  atheistical.  His 
talk  about  belief  in  spirits  and  hobgoblins  irritated 
her.  She  kept  a  limited  intelligence  together  by  means 
of  formulas,  as  she  kept  her  scanty  reddish-gray  hair 
together  by  means  of  a  rigid  false  front. 

"I  believe  in  God  the  Father,  God  the  Son,  and  God 


STELLA    MARIS  29 

the  Holy  Ghost,"  she  said,  with  an  air  of  cutting  re- 
proof. 

Sir  Oliver  pushed  his  plate  from  him,  but  not  the 
fraction  of  a  millimetre  beyond  that  caused  by  the  im- 
patient push  sanctioned  by  good  manners. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Julia!" 

"I  don't  see  how  a  Christian  woman  declaring  the 
elements  of  her  faith  can  be  a  fool,"  said  Lady  Blount, 
drawing  herself  up. 

"There  are  times  and  seasons  for  everything,"  said 
Sir  Oliver.  "If  you  were  having  a  political  argument, 
and  any  one  asked  you  whether  you  believed  in  tariff 
reform,  and  you  glared  at  him  and  said,  'I  believe  in 
Pontius  Pilate,'  you  'd  be  professing  Christianity,  but 
showing  yourself  an  idiot." 

"But  I  don't  believe  in  Pontius  Pilate,"  retorted 
Lady  Blount. 

"Oh,  don't  you?"  cried  Sir  Oliver,  in  sinister  ex- 
ultation. "Then  your  whole  historical  fabric  of  the 
Crucifixion  must  fall  to  the  ground." 

"I  don't  see  why  you  need  be  irreverent  and  blas- 
phemous," said  Lady  Blount. 

Herold  laid  his  hand  on  Lady  Blount's  and  looked 
at  her,  with  his  head  on  one  side. 

"But  do  you  believe  in  Stellamaris,  Julia." 

His  smile  was  so  winning,  with  its  touch  of  mock- 
ery, that  she  grew  mollified. 

"I  believe  she  has  bewitched  all  of  us,"  she  said. 

Which  shows  how  any  woman  may  be  made  to  eat 
her  words  just  by  a  little  kindness. 

So  the  talk  went  back  to  Stella  and  her  ways  and 
her  oddities,  and  the  question  of  faith  in  Pontius  Pi- 
late being  necessary  for  salvation  was  forgotten.  A 
maid,  Stella's  own  maid,  came  in  with  a  message. 
Miss  Stella's  compliments,  and  were  Mr.  Risca  and 
Mr.  Herold  having  a  good  supper?  She  herself  was 


3o  STELLA    MARIS 

about  to  drink  her  egg  beaten  up  in  sherry,  and  would 
be  glad  if  the  gentlemen  would  take  a  glass  of  wine 
with  her.  The  young  men,  accordingly,  raised  their 
glasses  toward  the  ceiling  and  drank  to  Stella,  in  the 
presence  of  the  maid,  and  gave  her  appropriate  mes- 
sages to  take  back  to  her  mistress.  It  was  a  customary 
little  ceremony,  but  in  Risca's  eyes  it  never  lost  its 
grace  and  charm.  To-night  it  seemed  to  have  a  deeper 
significance,  bringing  Stella  with  her  elfin  charm  into 
the  midst  of  them,  and  thus  exorcising  the  spirits  of 
evil  that  held  him  in  their  torturing  grip.  He  spoke 
but  little  at  the  meal,  content  to  listen  to  the  talk  about 
Stella,  and  curiously  impatient  when  the  conversation 
drifted  into  other  channels.  Of  his  own  tragedy  no 
one  spoke.  On  his  arrival,  Lady  Blount,  with  un- 
wonted demonstration  of  affection,  had  thrown  her 
arms  round  his  neck,  and  Sir  Oliver  had  wrung  his 
hand  and  mumbled  the  stiff  Briton's  incoherences  of 
sympathy.  He  had  not  yet  told  them  of  his  decision 
to  go  to  Australia. 

He  broke  the  news  later,  in  the  drawing-room,  ab- 
ruptly and  apropos  of  nothing,  as  was  his  manner, 
firing  his  bombshell  with  the  defiant  air  of  one  who 
says,  "There,  what  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"I  'm  going  to  Australia  next  week,  never  to  come 
back  again,"  said  he. 

There  was  a  discussion.  Sir  Oliver  commended 
him.  The  great  dependencies  of  the  empire  were  the 
finest  field  in  the  world  for  a  young  man,  provided  he 
kept  himself  outside  the  radius  of  the  venomous  blight 
of  the  Colonial  Office.  To  that  atrophied  branch  of 
the  imperial  service  the  white  administrator  was 
merely  a  pigeon-holed  automaton ;  the  native,  black  or 
bronze  or  yellow,  a  lion-hearted  human  creature.  All 
the  murder,  riot,  rapine,  arson,  and  other  heteroge- 
neous devilry  that  the  latter  cared  to  indulge  in  pro- 


. 

THE   YOUNG  MEN,    ACCORDINGLY,   RAISED  THEIR  GLASSES  .  .  .   AND  DRANK  TO  STELLA 


STELLA   MARIS  31 

ceeded  naturally  from  the  noble  indignation  of  his 
generous  nature.  If  the  sensible  man  who  was  ap- 
pointed by  the  Government  to  rule  over  this  scum  of 
the  planet  called  out  the  military  and  wiped  out  a  few 
dozen  of  them  for  the  greater  glory  and  safety  of  the 
empire,  the  pusillanimous  ineptitudes  in  second-rate 
purple  and  cheap  linen  of  the  Colonial  Office,  for  the 
sake  of  currying  favour  with  Labour  members  and  So- 
cialists and  Radicals  and  Methodists  and  Anti-vivisec- 
tionists  and  Vegetarians  and  other  miserable  Little- 
Englanders,  denounced  him  as  a  Turk,  an  assassin,  a 
seventeenth-century  Spanish  conquistador  of  the  blood- 
iest type,  and  held  him  up  to  popular  execration,  and 
recalled  him,  and  put  him  on  a  beggarly  pension  years 
before  he  had  reached  his  age  limit.  He  could  tell 
them  stories  which  seemed  (and  in  truth  deserved  to 
be)  incredible. 

"John,"  said  Lady  Blount,  "has  heard  all  this  a 
thousand  times," — as  indeed  he  had, — "and  must  be 
sick  to  death  of  it.  He  is  not  going  out  to  Australia 
as  governor-general." 

"Who  said  he  was,  my  dear?"  said  Sir  Oliver. 

"If  you  did  n't  imply  it,  you  were  talking  nonsense, 
Oliver,"  Lady  Blount  retorted. 

"Anyhow,  Oliver,  do  you  think  John  is  taking  a: 
wise  step?"  Herold  hastily  interposed. 

"I  do,"  said  he;  "a  very  wise  step." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you  at  all,"  said  Lady  Blount, 
with  a  snap  of  finality. 

"Your  remark,  my  dear,"  replied  Sir  Oliver,  "does 
not  impress  me  in  the  least.  When  did  you  ever  agree 
with  me  ?" 

"Never,  my  dear  Oliver,"  said  Lady  Blount,  with 
the  facial  smile  of  the  secretly  hostile  fencer.  "And 
I  thank  Heaven  for  it.  I  may  not  be  a  brilliant 
woman,  but  I  am  endowed  with  common  sense." 


32  STELLA    MARIS 

Sir  Oliver  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  with  lips 
parted,  as  if  to  speak;  but  finding"  nothing  epigram- 
matic enough  to  say — and  an  epigram  alone  would 
have  saved  the  situation — he  planted  a  carefully  cut 
cigar  between  the  parted  lips  aforesaid,  and  delib- 
erately struck  a  match. 

"Your  idea,  John,"  said  Lady  Blount,  aware  of  vic- 
tory, "is  preposterous.  What  would  Stella  do  without 
you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Sir  Oliver,  after  lighting  his  cigar; 
"Stella  has  to  be  considered  before  everything." 

Risca  frowned  on  the  unblushing  turncoat.  Stella ! 
Stella !  Everything  was  Stella.  Here  were  three  ordi- 
nary, sane,  grown-up  people  seriously  putting  forward 
the  proposition  that  he  had  no  right  to  go  and  mend 
his  own  broken  life  in  his  own  fashion  because  he 
happened  to  be  the  favored  playmate  of  a  little  invalid 
girl! 

On  the  one  side  was  the  driving  force  of  Furies  of 
a  myriad  hell-power,  and  on  the  other  the  disappoint- 
ment of  Stella  Blount.  It  was  ludicrous.  Even  Wal- 
ter Herold,  who  had  a  sense  of  humour,  did  not  see  the 
grotesque  incongruity.  Risca  frowned  upon  each  in 
turn — upon  three  serene  faces  smilingly  aware  of  the 
absurd.  Was  it  worth  while  trying  to  convince 
them? 

"Our  dear  friends  are  quite  right,  John,"  said 
Herold.  "What  would  become  of  Stella  if  you  went 
away  ?" 

"None  of  you  seems  to  consider  what  would  hap- 
pen to  me  if  I  stayed,"  said  John,  in  the  quiet  tone  of 
a  man  who  is  talking  to  charming  but  unreasonable 
children.  "It  will  go  to  my  heart  to  leave  Stella,  more 
than  any  of  you  can  realize;  but  to  Australia  I  go,  and 
there  's  an  end  of  it." 

Lady  Blount  sighed.    .What  with  imperial  govern- 


STELLA    MARIS  33 

ments  that  wrecked  the  career  of  men  for  shooting  a 
few  murderous  and  fire-raising  blacks,  and  with  low- 
born vixens  of  women  who  ruined  men's  careers  in 
other  ways,  life  was  a  desperate  puzzle.  She  was  fond 
of  her  cousin  John  Risca.  She,  too,  before  she  mar- 
ried Sir  Oliver,  had  borne  the  name,  and  the  disgrace 
that  had  fallen  upon  it  affected  her  deeply.  It  was 
horrible  to  think  of  John's  wife,  locked  up  that  night 
in  the  stone  cell  of  a  gaol.  She  leaned  back  in  her 
chair  in  silence  while  the  men  talked — Sir  Oliver,  by 
way  of  giving  Risca  hints  on  the  conduct  of  life  in 
Melbourne,  was  narrating  his  experiences  of  forty 
years  ago  in  the  West  Indies — and  stared  into  the  fire. 
Her  face,  beneath  the  front  of  red  hair  that  accused 
so  pitifully  the  reddish  gray  that  was  her  own,  looked 
very  old  and  faded.  What  was  a  prison  like?  She 
shuddered.  As  governor's  wife,  she  had  once  or  twice 
had  occasion  to  visit  a  colonial  prison.  But  the  cap- 
tives were  black,  and  they  grinned  cheerily;  their  rai- 
ment, save  for  the  unaesthetic  decoration  of  the  black 
arrow,  was  not  so  very  different  from  that  which  they 
wore  in  a  state  of  freedom;  neither  were  food,  bed- 
ding, and  surroundings  so  very  different ;  and  the  place 
was  flooded  with  air  and  blazing  sunshine.  She  could 
never  realize  that  it  was  a  real  prison.  It  might  have 
been  a  prison  of  musical  comedy.  But  an  English 
prison  was  the  real,  unimaginable  abode  of  grim,  gray 
horror.  She  had  heard  of  the  prison  taint.  She  con- 
ceived it  as  a  smell — that  of  mingled  quicklime  and 
the  corruption  it  was  to  destroy — which  lingered  phys- 
ically forever  after  about  the  persons  of  those  who 
had  been  confined  within  prison-walls.  A  gaol  was  a 
place  of  eternal  twilight,  eternal  chill,  eternal  degrada- 
tion for  the  white  man  or  woman ;  and  a  white  woman, 
the  wife  of  one  of  her  own  race,  was  there.  It  was 
almost  as  if  the  taint  hung  about  her  own  lavender- 


34  STELLA   MARIS 

scented  self.  She  shivered,  and  drew  her  chair  a  few 
inches  nearer  the  fire. 

Was  it  so  preposterous,  after  all,  on  John  Risca's 
part  to  fly  from  the  shame  into  a  wider,  purer  air? 
Her  cry  had  been  unthinking,  instinctive,  almost  a  cry 
for  help.  She  was  growing  old  and  soured  and  worn 
by  perpetual  conjugal  wranglings.  John,  her  kinsman, 
counted  for  a  great  deal  in  a  life  none  too  rich.  John 
and  Stella  were  nearest  to  her  in  the  world — first 
Stella,  naturally,  then  John.  To  the  woman  of  over 
fifty  the  man  of  under  thirty  is  still  a  boy.  For  many 
years  she  had  nursed  the  two  together  in  her  heart. 
And  now  he  was  going  from  her.  What  would  she, 
what  would  Stella,  do  without  him?  Her  husband's 
direct  interpellation  aroused  her  from  her  reverie. 

"Julia,  what  was  the  name  of  the  chap  we  met  in 
St.  Kitts  who  had  been  sheep-farming  in  Queensland?" 

They  had  sailed  away  from  St.  Kitts  in  1878.  Lady 
Blount  reminded  him  tartly  of  the  fact  while  profess- 
ing her  oblivion  of  the  man  from  Queensland.  They 
sparred  for  a  few  moments.  Then  she  rose  wearily 
and  said  she  was  going  to  bed.  Sir  Oliver  looked  at 
his  watch. 

"Nearly  twelve.    Time  for  us  all  to  go." 

"As  soon  as  I  Ve  written  my  morning  letter  to 
Stellamaris,"  said  Herold. 

"I  must  write,  too,"  said  Risca. 

For  it  was  a  rule  of  the  house  that  every  visitor 
should  write  Stellamaris  a  note  overnight,  to  be  deliv- 
ered into  her  hands  the  first  thing  in  the  morning. 
The  origin  of  the  rule  was  wrapped  in  the  mists  of 
history. 

So  John  Risca  sat  down  at  Sir  Oliver's  study-table 
in  order  to  indite  his  letter  to  Stellamaris.  But  for  a 
long  time  he  stared  at  the  white  paper.  He,  the  prac- 
tised journalist,  who  could  dash  off  his  thousand  words 


STELLA   MARIS  35 

on  any  subject  as  fast  as  pen  could  travel,  no  matter 
what  torture  burned  his  brain,  could  not  find  a  foolish 
message  for  a  sick  child.  At  last  he  wrote  like  a 
school-boy : 

Darling:  The  flowers  were  beautiful,  and  so  is  the 
new  picture,  aiid  I  want  to  see  you  early  in  the  morn- 
ing. I  hope  you  are  well.  JOHN  RISCA. 

And  he  had  to  tear  the  letter  out  of  its  envelope  and 
put  it  into  a  fresh  one  because  he  had  omitted  to  add 
the  magic  initials  "G.  H.  B."  to  his  name.  Compared 
with  his  usual  imaginative  feats  of  correspondence,  this 
was  a  poverty-stricken  epistle.  She  would  wonder  at 
the  change.  Perhaps  his  demand  for  an  immediate 
interview  would  startle  her,  and  shocks  were  danger- 
ous. He  tore  up  the  letter  and  envelope,  and  went  to 
his  own  room.  It  was  past  two  o'clock  when  he  crept 
downstairs  again  to  lay  his  letter  on  the  hall  table. 

At  the  sight  of  him  the  next  morning  the  color 
deepened  in  the  delicate  cheeks  of  Stellamaris,  and  her 
dark  eyes  grew  bright.  She  held  out  a  welcoming 
hand. 

"Ah,  Belovedest,  I  've  been  longing  to  see  you  ever 
since  dawn.  I  woke  up  then  and  could  n't  go  to  sleep 
again  because  I  was  so  excited." 

He  took  the  chair  by  her  bedside,  and  her  fingers 
tapped  affectionately  on  the  back  of  the  great  hand  that 
lay  on  the  coverlid. 

"I  suppose  I  was  excited,  too,"  said  he,  "for  I  was 
awake  at  dawn." 

"Did  you  look  out  of  window?" 

"Yes,"  said  John. 

"Then  we  both  saw  the  light  creeping  over  the  sea 
like  a  monstrous  ghost.  And  it  all  lay  so  pallid  and 
still, — did  n't  it? — as  if  it  were  a  sea  in  a  land  of 


36  STELLA    MARIS 

death.  And  then  a  cheeky  little  thrush  began  to  twit- 
ter." 

"I  heard  the  thrush,"  replied  John.  "He  said,  'Any 
old  thing !  Any  old  thing !' ' 

He  mimicked  the  bird's  note.    Stella  laughed. 

"That's  just  what  he  said — as  though  a  sea  in  a 
land  of  death  or  the  English  Channel  was  all  the  same 
to  him.  I  suppose  it  was." 

"It  must  be  good  to  be  a  thrush,"  said  Risca. 
"There  's  a  je  m'en  fich'isme  about  his  philosophy 
which  must  be  very  consoling." 

"I  know  what  that  is  in  English,"  cried  Stellamaris. 
"It  is  'don't-care-a-damativeness.' '  Her  lips  rounded 
roguishly  over  the  naughly  syllable. 

"Where  did  you  learn  that?" 

"Walter  told  me." 

"Walter  must  be  clapped  into  irons,  and  fed  on 
bread  and  water,  and  seriously  spoken  to." 

Unconsciously  he  had  drifted  into  his  usual  manner 
of  speech  with  her.  She  laughed  with  a  child's  easy 
gaiety. 

"It 's  delightful  to  be  wicked,  is  n't  it?" 

"Why?"  he  asked. 

"It  must  be  such  an  adventure.  It  must  make  you 
hold  your  breath  and  your  heart  beat." 

John  wondered  grimly  whether  a  certain  doer  of 
wickedness  had  felt  this  ecstatic  rapture.  She,  too, 
must  have  seen  the  gray  dawn,  but  creeping  through 
prison-bars  into  her  cell.  God  of  Inscrutability !  Was 
it  possible  that  these  two  co- watchers  of  the  dawn, 
both  so  dominant  in  his  life,  were  of  the  same  race  of 
beings?  If  the  one  was  a  woman  born  of  woman, 
what  in  the  name  of  mystery  was  Stellamaris? 

"Don't  look  so  grave,  Great  High  Belovedest,"  she 
said,  squeezing  a  finger.  "I  only  spoke  in  fun.  It 
must  really  be  horrid  to  be  wicked.  When  I  was  lit- 


STELLA   MARIS  37 

tie  I  had  a  book  about  Cruel  Frederick — I  think  it  be- 
longed to  grandmama.  It  had  awful  pictures,  and 
there  were  rhymes — 

He  tore  the  wings  off  little  flies, 
And  then  poked  out  their  little  eyes. 

And  there  was  a  picture  of  his  doing  so.  I  used  to 
think  him  a  detestable  boy.  It  made  me  unhappy  and 
kept  me  awake  when  I  was  quite  small,  but  now  I 
know  it  's  all  nonsense.  People  don't  do  such  things, 
do  they?" 

Risca  twisted  his  glum  face  into  a  smile,  remember- 
ing the  Unwritten  Law.  "Of  course  not,  Stella- 
maris,"  said  he.  "Cruel  Frederick  is  just  as  much  of 
a  mythical  personage  as  the  Giant  Fee-fo-fum,  who 
said: 

I  smell  the  blood  of  an  Englishman, 

And  be  he  alive  or  be  he  dead, 

I  '11  grind  his  bones  to  make  my  bread." 

"Why  do  people  frighten  children  with  stories  of 
ogres  and  wicked  fairies  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  when 
the  real  world  they  live  in  is  so  beautiful  ?" 

"Pure  cussedness,"  answered  John,  unable  otherwise 
to  give  a  satisfactory  explanation. 

"Cussedness  is  silly,"  said  Stellamaris. 

There  was  a  little  pause.  Then  she  put  both  her 
hands  on  his  and  pressed  it. 

"Oh,  it 's  lovely  to  have  you  here  again,  Great  High 
Belovedest;  and  I  have  n't  thanked  you  for  your  let- 
ter. It  's  the  most  heavenly  one  you  've  ever  written 
to  me." 

It  might  well  have  been.  He  had  taken  two  hours 
to  write  it. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  most  heavenly  of  all  letters,"  Stellamaris 
repeated,  as  Risca  made  no  reply.  "I  loved  it 
because  it  showed  me  you  were  very  happy." 

"Have  you  ever  doubted  it  ?"  he  asked. 

The  Great  Dane,  the  Lord  High  Constable,  who  was 
stretched  out  on  his  side,  with  relaxed,  enormous  limbs, 
on  the  hearth-rug,  lifted  his  massive  head  for  a  second 
and  glanced  at  John.  Then  with  a  half -grunt,  half- 
sigh,  he  dropped  his  head,  and  twitched  his  limbs  and 
went  to  sleep  again. 

"Now  and  then  when  you  're  not  looking^  at  me," 
said  Stellamaris,  "there  is  a  strange  look  in  your  eyes : 
it  is  when  you  're  not  speaking  and  you  stare  out  of 
window  without  seeming  to  see  anything." 

For  a  moment  Risca  was  assailed  by  a  temptation  to 
break  the  Unwritten  Law  and  tell  her  something  of 
his  misery.  She,  with  her  superfine  intelligence,  would 
understand,  and  her  sympathy  would  be  sweet.  But 
he  put  the  temptation  roughly  from  him. 

"I  am  the  happiest  fellow  in  the  world,  Stellamaris," 
said  he. 

"It  would  be  difficult  not  to  be  happy  in  such  a 
world." 

She  pointed  out  to  sea.  The  blustering  wind  of  the 
day  before  had  fallen,  and  a  light  breeze  shook  the  tips 
of  the  waves  to  the  morning  sunshine,  which  turned 
them  into  diamonds.  The  sails  of  the  fishing-fleet  of 

38 


STELLA   MARIS  39 

the  tiny  port  flashed  merrily  against  the  kindly  blue. 
On  the  horizon  a  great  steamer  was  visible  steaming 
up  Channel.  The  salt  air  came  in  through  the  open 
windows.  The  laughter  of  fishermen's  children  rose 
faintly  from  the  beach  far  below. 

"And  there  's  spring,  too,  dancing  over  everything," 
she  said.  "Don't  you  feel  it  ?" 

He  acknowledged  the  vernal  influence,  and,  careful 
lest  his  eyes  should  betray  him,  talked  of  the  many 
things  she  loved.  He  had  not  seen  her  for  a  fortnight, 
so  there  were  the  apocryphal  doings  of  Lilias  and 
Niphetos  to  record, — Cleopatras  of  cats,  whom  age 
could  not  wither,  and  whose  infinite  variety  custom 
could  not  stale, — and  there  was  the  approaching  mar- 
riage of  Arachne  with  a  duke  to  report.  And  he*  told 
her  of  his  gay,  bright  life  in  London  and  of  the  beau- 
tiful Belinda  Molyneux,  an  imaginary  Egeria,  who 
sometimes  lunched  with  the  queen.  The  effort  of 
artistic  creation  absorbed  him,  as  it  always  had  done, 
under  the  spell  of  Stellamaris's  shining  eyes.  The  fool- 
ish world  of  his  imagination  became  real,  and  for  the 
moment  hung  like  a  veil  before  his  actual  world  of 
tragedy.  It  was  in  the  nature  of  a  shock  to  him  when 
Stella's  maid  entered  and  asked  him  if  he  could  speak 
to  Mr.  Herold  outside  the  door. 

"Tell  him  to  come  in,"  said  Stellamaris. 

"He  says  he  will,  Miss,  after  he  has  seen  Mr. 
Risca." 

Risca  found  Herold  on  the  landing. 

"Well?" 

"Well?"  said  John. 

"What  has  happened  ?    How  did  she  take  it  ?" 

John  looked  away,  and  thrust  his  hands  into  his 
pockets. 

"I  've  not  told  her  yet." 

Walter  drew  a  breath.    "But  you  're  going  to?" 


40  STELLA    MARIS 

"Of  course,"  said  John.  "Do  you  think  it  's  so 
damned  easy?" 

"You  had  better  be  quick,  if  you  're  coming  back 
to  town  with  me.  I  'm  due  at  rehearsal  at  twelve." 

"I'll  go  and  tell  her  now,"  said  John. 

"Let  me  just  say  how  d'  ye  do  to  her  first.  I  won't 
stay  a  minute." 

The  two  men  entered  the  sea-chamber  together. 
Stella  welcomed  her  Great  High  Favourite  and  chatted 
gaily  for  a  while.  Then  she  commanded  him  to  sit 
down. 

"I  'm  afraid  I  can't  stay,  Stellamaris.  I  have  to 
go  back  to  London." 

Stella  glanced  at  the  clock.  "Your  train  does  n't 
go  for  an  hour."  She  was  jealously  learned  in  trains. 

"I  think  John  wants  to  talk  to  you." 

"He  has  been  talking  to  me  quite  beautifully  for  a 
long  time,"  said  Stella,  "and  I  want  to  talk  to 
you." 

"He  has  something  very  particular  to  say,  Stella- 
maris." 

"What  is  it,  Belovedest?"  Her  eyes  sparkled,  and 
she  clasped  her  hands  over  her  childish  bosom.  "You 
are  not  going  to  marry  Belinda  Molyneux  ?" 

"No,  dear,"  said  John;  "I'm  not  going  to  marry 
anybody." 

"I  'm  so  glad."  She  turned  to  Herold.  "Are  you 
going  to  get  married  ?" 

"No,"  smiled  Herold. 

Stella  laughed.  "What  a  relief!  People  do  get 
married,  you  know,  and  I  suppose  both  of  you  will 
have  to  one  of  these  days,  when  you  get  older;  but 
I  don't  like  to  think  of  it." 

"I  don't  believe  I  shall  ever  marry,  Stellamaris," 
said  Herold. 

"Why?" 


STELLA   MARIS  41 

Herold  looked  out  to  sea  for  a  wistful  instant.  "Be- 
cause one  can't  marry  a  dream,  my  dear." 

"I  've  married  hundreds/'  said  Stella,  softly. 

If  they  had  been  alone  together,  they  would  have 
talked  dreams  and  visions  and  starshine  and  moon- 
shine, and  their  conversation  would  have  been  about 
as  sensible  and  as  satisfactory  to  each  other  and  as  in- 
telligible to  a  third  party  as  that  of  a  couple  of  elves 
sitting  on  adjacent  toadstools;  but  elves  don't  talk  in 
the  presence  of  a  third  party,  even  though  he  be  John 
Risca  and  Great  High  Belovedest.  And  Stellamaris, 
recognizing  this  instinctively,  turned  her  eyes  quickly 
to  Risca. 

"And  you,  dear — will  you  ever  marry?" 

"Never,  by  Heaven !"  cried  John,  with  startling  fer- 
vency. 

Stella  reached  out  both  her  hands  to  the  two  men 
who  incorporated  the  all  in  all  of  her  little  life,  and 
each  man  took  a  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  horrid  and  selfish,"  she  said; 
"but  if  I  lost  either  of  you,  I  think  it  would  break  my 
heart." 

The  men  exchanged  glances.  John  repeated  his 
query:  "Do  you  think  it  's  so  damned  easy?" 

"Tell  us  why  you  say  that.  Stellamaris,"  said  Her- 
old. 

John  rose  suddenly  and  stood  by  the  west  window, 
which  was  closed.  Stella's  high  bed  had  been  drawn 
next  to  the  window  open  to  the  south.  The  room  was 
warm,  for  a  great  fire  blazed  in  the  tall  chimneypiece. 
He  rose  to  hide  his  eyes  from  Stella,  confounding 
Herold  for  a  marplot  Was  this  the  way  to  make  his 
task  easier?  He  heard  Stella  say  in  her  sweet  con- 
tralto : 

"Do  you  imagine  it  's  just  for  silly  foolishness  I 
call  you  Great  High  Belovedest  and  Great  High  Fa- 


42  STELLA    MARIS 

vourite?  You  see,  Walter  dear,  I  gave  John  his  title 
before  I  knew  you,  so  I  had  to  make  some  difference 
in  yours.  But  they  mean  everything  to  me.  I  live  in 
the  sky  such  a  lot,  and  it 's  a  beautiful  life ;  but  I  know 
there  's  another  life  in  the  great  world — a  beautiful 
life,  too."  She  wrinkled  her  forehead.  "Oh,  it  's  so 
difficult  to  explain !  It  Js  so  hard  to  talk  about  feel- 
ings, because  the  moment  you  begin  to  talk  about 
them,  the  feelings  become  so  vague.  It  's  like  trying 
to  tell  any  one  the  shape  of  a  sunset."  She  paused  for 
a  moment  or  two;  Herold  smiled  at  her  and  nodded 
encouragingly.  Presently  she  went  on:  "I  '11  try  to 
put  it  this  way.  Often  a  gull,  you  see,  comes  hovering 
outside  here  and  looks  in  at  me,  oh,  for  a  long  time, 
with  his  round,  yellow  eyes ;  and  my  heart  beats,  and  I 
love  him,  for  he  tells  me  all  about  the  sea  and  sky  and 
clouds,  where  I'll  never  go, — not  really, — and  I  live 
the  sky  life  through  him,  and  more  than  ever  since 
you  sent  me  that  poem — I  know  it  by  heart — about 
the  sea-gull.  Who  wrote  it?" 

"Swinburne,"  said  Herold. 

"Did  he  write  anything  else  ?" 

"One  or  two  other  little  things,"  replied  Herold,  ju- 
diciously. "I  '11  copy  them  out  and  bring  them  to  you. 
But  go  on." 

"Well,"  she  said,  "yesterday  afternoon  a  little  bird 
— I  don't  know  what  kind  of  bird  it  was — came  and 
sat  on  the  window-sill,  and  turned  his  head  this  way 
and  looked  at  me,  and  turned  his  head  that  way  and 
looked  at  me,  and  I  did  n't  move  hand  or  foot,  and 
I  said,  'Cheep,  cheep !'  And  he  hopped  on  the  bed  and 
stayed  there  such  a  long  time.  And  I  talked  to  him, 
and  he  hopped  about  and  looked  at  me  and  seemed  to 
tell  me  all  sorts  of  wonderful  things.  But  he  did  n't 
somehow,  although  he  came  from  the  sky,  and  was 
a  perfect  dear.  He  must  have  known  all  about  it,  but 


STELLA   MARIS  43 

he  did  n't  know  how  to  tell  me.  Now,  you  and  John 
come  from  the  beautiful  world  and  tell  me  wonderful 
things  about  it ;  and  I  shall  never  go  there  really,  but 
I  can  live  in  it  through  you." 

Constable,  the  Great  Dane,  known  by  this  abbrevi- 
ated title  in  familiar  life,  rose,  stretched  himself,  and 
went  and  snuggled  his  head  beneath  John's  arm.  John 
turned,  his  arm  round  the  hound's  neck. 

"But  you  can  live  in  it  through  anybody,  dear," 
said  he — "your  Uncle  Oliver,  your  Aunt  Julia,  or 
anybody  who  comes  to  see  you." 

Stellamaris  looked  at  Herold  for  a  characteristically 
sympathetic  moment,  and  then  at  John.  She 
sighed. 

"I  told  you  it  was  hard  to  explain.  But  don't  you 
see,  Belovedest?  You  and  Walter  are  like  my  gull. 
Everybody  else  is  like  the  little  bird.  You  know  how 
to  tell  me  and  make  me  live.  The  others  are  darlings, 
but  they  don't  seem  to  know  how  to  do  it." 

John  scratched  his  head. 

"I  see  what  you  mean,"  said  he. 

"I  should  hope  so,"  said  Herold. 

He  looked  at  his  watch  and  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"Star  of  the  Sea,"  said  he,  "to  talk  with  you  is  the 
most  fascinating*  occupation  on  earth;  but  managers 
are  desperate  fellows,  and  I  '11  get  into  boiling  water 
if  I  miss  my  rehearsal."  He  turned  to  John.  "I  don't 
see  how  you  are  going  to  catch  this  train." 

"Neither  do  I,*'  said  John.  "I  shall  go  by  the  one 
after." 

Herold  took  his  leave,  promising  to  run  down  for 
the  week-end.  Constable  accompanied  him  to  the  door 
in  a  dignified  way,  and  this  ceremony  of  politeness 
accomplished,  stalked  back  to  the  hearth-rug,  where 
he  threw  himself  down,  his  head  on  his  paws,  and  his 
faithful  eyes  fixed  on  his  mistress.  John  sat  down 


44  STELLA    MARIS 

again  by  the  bedside.  There  was  a  short  silence  dur- 
ing- which  Stellamaris  smiled  at  him  and  he  smiled  at 
Stellamaris. 

"Does  n't  the  Great  High  Belovedest  want  to 
smoke  ?" 

"Badly,"  said  John. 

She  held  out  her  hand  for  the  pipe  and  tobacco- 
pouch.  He  gave  them  to  her,  and  she  filled  the  pipe. 
For  a  while  he  smoked  peacefully.  From  where  he 
sat  all  he  could  see  of  the  outside  world  was  the  waste 
of  sun-kissed  waters  stretching  away  and  melting  into 
a  band  of  pearly  cloud  on  the  horizon.  He  might  have 
been  out  at  sea.  Possibly  this  time  next  week  he  would 
be,  and  the  salt  air  would  be  playing,  as  now,  about 
his  head.  But  on  board  that  ship  would  be  no  spa- 
cious sea-chamber  like  this,  so  gracious  in  its  appoint- 
ments— its  old  oak  and  silver,  its  bright  chintzes,  its 
quiet  old  engravings,  its  dainty  dressing-table  covered 
with  fairy-like  toilet-articles,  its  blue  delft  bowls  full 
of  flowers,  its  atmosphere  so  dearly  English,  yet  Eng- 
lish of  the  days  when  Sir  Bedivere  threw  Excalibur 
into  the  mere.  In  no  other  spot  on  the  globe  could 
be  found  such  a  sea-chamber,  with  its  high  bed,  on 
which  lay  the  sweet,  elfin  face,  half  child's,  half 
woman's,  framed  in  the  soft,  brown  hair. 

Risca  smoked  on,  and  Stellamaris,  seeing  him  disin- 
clined to  talk,  gazed  happily  out  to  her  beloved  Chan- 
nel, and  dreamed  her  dreams.  They  had  often  sat 
like  this  for  an  hour  together,  both  Reeling  that  they 
were  talking  to  each  other  all  the  time;  and  often 
Stella  would  break  the  silence  by  telling  him  to  listen. 
At  such  times,  so  people  said,  an  angel  was  passing. 
And  he  would  listen,  but  could  not  hear.  He  remem- 
bered Walter  Herold  once  agreeing  with  her,  and  say- 
ing: 

"There  's  a  special  little  angel  told  off  to  come  here 


STELLA   MARIS  45 

every  day  and  beat  his  wings  about  the  room  so  as  to 
clear  the  air  of  all  troubling  things." 

In  no  other  spot  on  the  globe  could  be  found  such 
a  sea-chamber,  wing-swept,  spirit-haunted,  where  pain 
ceased  magically  and  the  burden  of  intolerable  suffer- 
ing grew  light.  No  other  haven  along  all  the  coasts  of 
the  earth  was  a  haven  of  rest  such  as  this. 

And  the  Furies  were  driving  him  from  it!  But 
here  the  Furies  ceased  from  driving.  Here  he  had 
delicious  ease.  Here  a  pair  of  ridiculously  frail  hands 
held  him  a  lotus-fed  prisoner.  He  smoked  on.  At 
last  he  resisted  the  spell.  The  whole  thing  was  non- 
sensical. His  pipe,  only  lightly  packed  by  the  frail 
hands,  went  out.  He  stuffed  it  in  his  pocket,  and 
cleared  his  throat.  He  would  say  then  and  there  what 
he  had  come  to  say. 

Stellamaris  turned  her  head  and  laughed ;  and  when 
Stellamaris  laughed,  the  sea  outside  and  the  flowers 
in  the  delft  bowl  laughed,  too. 

"The  angel  has  been  having  a  good  time." 

John  cleared  his  throat  again. 

"My  dear,"  said  he,  and  then  he  stopped  short. 
'All  the  carefully  prepared  exordiums  went  out  of  his 
head.  How  now  to  break  the  news  to  her  he  did  not 
know. 

"Are  you  very  tired  ?"  she  asked. 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  John. 

"Then  be  a  dear,  and  read  me  something.  Read 
me  'Elaine.' ' 

The  elevated  and  sophisticated  and  very  highly  edu- 
cated may  learn  with  surprise  that  "The  Idylls  of  the 
King"  still  appeal  to  ingenuous  fifteen.  Thank  God 
there  are  yet  remaining  also  some  sentimentalists  of 
fifty  who  can  read  them  with  pleasure  and  profit! 

"But  that  is  so  sad,  Stellamaris,"  said  John.  "You 
don't  want  to  be  sad  this  beautiful  spring  morning." 


46  STELLA    MARIS 

Which  was  a  very  inconsistent  remark  to  make,  see- 
ing that  he  was  about  to  dash  the  young1  sun  from 
her  sky  altogether. 

"I  like  being  sad  sometimes,  especially  when  the 
world  is  bright.  And  Lancelot  was  such  a  dear," — • 
here  spoke  ingenuous  fifteen, — "and  Elaine — oh,  do 
read  it!" 

So  John,  secretly  glad  of  a  respite,  drew  from  the 
bookcase  which  held  her  scrupulously  selected  and 
daintily  bound  library  the  volume  of  Tennyson  and 
read  aloud  the  idyll  of  Lancelot  and  Elaine.  And  the 
sea-wind  blew  about  his  head  and  fluttered  the  brown 
hair  on  the  pillow,  and  the  log-fire  blazed  in  the  chim- 
ney, and  the  great  dog  slept,  and  a  noontide  hush 
was  over  all  things.  And  Risca  read  the  simple  poem 
with  the  heart  of  the  girl  of  fifteen,  and  forgot  every- 
thing else  in  the  world. 

When  he  had  finished,  the  foolish  eyes  of  both  were 
moist.  "The  dead  oar'd  by  the  dumb,"  with  the  lily 
in  her  hand, — dead  for  the  love  of  Lancelot, — affected 
them  both  profoundly. 

"I  think  I  should  die,  too,  like  that,  Great  High 
Belovedest,"  said  Stellamaris,  "if  any  one  I  loved  left 
me." 

"But  what  Lancelot  is  going  to  leave  you,  dear?" 
said  John. 

She  shook  the  thistledown  of  sadness  from  her 
brow  and  laughed. 

"You  and  Walter  are  the  only  Lancelots  I've  got." 

"The  devil  's  in  the  child  to-day,"  said  Risca  to 
himself. 

There  was  a  short  pause.    Then  Stella  said: 

"Belovedest  dear,  what  was  the  particular  thing 
that  Walter  said  you  had  to  tell  me?" 

"It  's  of  no  consequence,"  said  John.  "It  will  do 
to-morrow  or  the  day  after.". 


STELLA    MARTS  47 

Stella  started  joyously, — as  much  as  the  rigid  dis- 
cipline of  years  would  allow  her, — and  great  glad- 
ness lit  her  face. 

"Darling!  Are  you  going  to  stay  here  to-day  and 
to-morrow  and  the  next  day?" 

"My  dear,"  said  John,  "I  've  got  to  get  up  to  town 
this  morning." 

"You  won't  do  that,"  said  Stella.  "Look  at  the 
clock." 

It  was  a  quarter  to  one.  He  had  spent  the  whole 
morning  with  her,  and  the  hours  had  flown  by  like 
minutes. 

"Why  did  n't  you  tell  me  that  I  ought  to  be  catch- 
ing my  train  ?" 

She  regarded  him  in  demure  mischief. 

"I  had  no  object  in  making  you  catch  your 
train." 

And  then  Her  Serene  High-and-Mightiness,  the 
nurse  (who  had  been  called  in  for  Stella  when  first 
she  was  put  to  bed  in  the  sea-chamber,  and,  falling 
under  her  spell,  had  stayed  on  until  she  had  grown 
as  much  involved  in  the  web  of  her  life  as  Sir  Oliver 
and  Lady  Julia  and  Constable  and  Herold  and  Risca), 
came  into  the  room  and  decreed  the  end  of  the  morn- 
ing interview.  • 

Risca  went  down-stairs,  his  purpose  unaccomplished. 
He  walked  about  the  garden  and  argued  with  him- 
self. Now,  when  a  man  argues  with  himself,  he,  be- 
ing only  the  extraneous  eidolon  of  himself,  invariably 
gets  the  worst  of  the  argument,  and  this  makes  him 
angry.  John  was  angry ;  to  such  a  point  that,  coming 
across  Sir  Oliver,  who  had  just  returned  from  an 
inexplicably  disastrous  game  of  golf  and  began  to 
pour  a  story  of  bunkered  gloom  into  his  ear,  he 
gnashed  his  teeth  and  tore  his  hair  and  told  Sir  Oliver 
to  go  to  the  devil  with  his  lugubrious  and  rotten 


48  STELLA    MARIS 

game,  and  dashed  away  to  the  solitude  of  the  beach 
until  the  luncheon-bell  summoned  him  back. 

"I  'm  going  by  the  3 150,"  said  he  at  the  luncheon- 
table. 

At  three  o'clock  Stella  was  free  to  see  him  again. 
He  went  up  to  her  room  distinctly  determined  to  shut 
his  heart  against  folly.  The  sun  had  crept  round 
toward  the  west  and  flooded  the  head  and  shoulders 
of  Stellamaris  and  the  dainty  bedspread  with  pale 
gold,  just  as  it  flooded  the  now  still  and  smiling  sea. 
Again  paralysis  fell  upon  John.  The  words  he  was 
to  speak  were  to  him,  as  well  as  to  her,  the  words  of 
doom,  and  he  could  not  utter  them.  They  talked  of 
vain,  childish  things.  Then  Stellamaris's  clock  chimed 
the  three-quarters.  There  are  some  chimes  that  are 
brutal,  others  ironic;  but  Stellamaris's  chimes  (the 
clock  was  a  gift  from  John  himself)  were  soft,  and 
pealed  a  soothing  mystery,  like  a  bell  swung  in  a  deep 
sea-cave. 

It  was  a  quarter  to  four,  and  he  had  missed  his  train 
once  more.  Well,  the  train  could  go  to — to  London, 
as  good  a  synonym  for  Tophet  as  any  other.  So  he 
stayed,  recklessly  surrendering  himself  to  the  pale,  sun- 
lit peace  of  the  sea-chamber,  till  he  was  dislodged  by 
Lady  Blount. 

An  attempt  to  catch  a  six  o'clock  train  was  equally 
unsuccessful.  He  did  not  return  to  town  that  night. 
Why  should  a  sorely  bruised  man  reject  the  balm 
that  healed?  To-morrow  he  would  be  stronger  and 
more  serene,  abler  to  control  the  driving  force  of  the 
Furies,  and  therefore  fitted  to  announce  in  gentler 
wise  the  decrees  of  destiny.  So  Risca  went  to  bed 
and  slept  easier,  and  the  room  which  Stellamaris  had 
made  for  him  became  the  enchanted  bower  of  a  Fair 
Lady  of  All  Mercy. 

In  their  simple  human  way  Sir  Oliver  and  Lady 


STELLA   MARIS  49 

Blount  besought  him  to  stay  for  his  health's  sake  in 
the  fresh  sea-air;  and  when  he  yielded,  they  prided 
themselves,  after  the  manner  of  humans,  on  their  own 
powers  of  persuasion.  One  morning  Sir  Oliver  asked 
him  point-blank: 

"When  are  you  going  to  Australia?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  John.  "There  's  no  imme- 
diate hurry." 

"I  hope,  dear,"  said  Julia,  "you  '11  give  up  the  idea 
altogether." 

"Have  n't  I  told  you  that  I  Ve  made  up  my  mind  ?" 
said  John,  in  his  gruff  tone  of  finality. 

"When  are  you  going  to  break  the  news  to  Stella?" 
asked  Sir  Oliver. 

"Now,"  said  John,  who  had  begun  to  loathe  the 
mention  of  the  doomful  subject ;  and  he  stalked  away 
—the  three  were  strolling  in  the  garden  after  break- 
fast— and  went  to  Stella's  room,  and  of  course  made 
no  mention  of  it  whatsoever. 

Then  Herold  came  down  for  the  week-end,  and 
when  he  heard  of  Risca's  pusillanimity  he  threw  back 
his  head  and  laughed  for  joy;  for  he  knew  that  John 
would  never  go  to  Australia  without  telling  Stella- 
maris,  and  also  that  if  he  could  not  tell  Stellamaris 
in  the  first  madness  of  his  agony,  he  would  never  be 
able  to  tell  her  at  all. 

And  so,  in  fact,  the  fantastically  absurd  prevailed. 
Before  the  Unwritten  Law,  mainly  promulgated  and 
enforced  by  Risca  himself,  which  guarded  the  sea- 
chamber  against  pain  and  sorrow,  the  driving  Furies 
slunk  with  limp  wing  and  nerveless  claw.  And  one 
day  Risca  was  surprised  at  finding  himself  undriven. 
Indeed,  he  was  somewhat  disconcerted.  He  fell  into 
a  bad  temper.  The  Furies  are  highly  aristocratic  di- 
vinities who  don't  worry  about  Tom,  Dick,  or  Harry, 
but  choose  an  Orestes  at  least  for  their  tormenting; 


50  STELLA   MARIS 

so  that,  when  they  give  up  their  pursuit  of  a  Risca, 
he  may  excusably  regard  it  as  a  personal  slight.  It 
was  the  morose  and  gloomy  nature  of  the  man. 

"I  know  I  'm  a  fool,"  he  said  to  Herold,  when  every 
one  had  gone  to  bed,  "but  I  can't  help  it.  Any  normal 
person  would  regard  me  as  insane  if  I  told  him  I 
was  stopped  from  saving  the  wreck  of  my  career  by 
consideration  for  the  temporary  comfort  of  a  bed- 
ridden chit  of  a  girl  half  my  age,  who  is  absolutely 
nothing  to  me  in  the  world  (her  uncle  married  my  first 
cousin.  If  that  is  anything  of  a  family  tie,  I  'm  weak 
on  family  feeling)  ;  but  that 's  God's  truth.  I  'm  tied 
by  her  to  this  accursed  country.  She  just  holds  me 
down  in  the  hell  of  London,  and  I  can't  wriggle  away. 
It  's  senseless,  I  know  it  is.  Sometimes  when  I  'm 
away  from  her,  walking  on  the  beach,  I  feel  I  'd  like 
to  throw  the  whole  of  this  confounded  house  into  the 
sea ;  and  then  I  look  up  and  see  the  light  in  her  room, 
and — I — I  just  begin  to  wonder  whether  she  's  asleep 
and  what  she  's  dreaming  of.  There  's  some  infernal 
witchcraft  about  the  child." 

"There  is,"  said  Herold. 

"Rot !"  said  Risca,  his  pugnacious  instincts  awakened 
by  the  check  on  his  dithyrambics.  "The  whole  truth 
of  the  matter  is  that  I  'm  simply  a  sentimental  fool." 

"All  honour  to  you,  John,"  said  Herold. 

"If  you  talk  like  that,  I  '11  wring  your  neck,"  said 
Risca,  pausing  for  a  second  in  his  walk  up  and  down 
Sir  Oliver's  library,  and  glaring  down  at  his  friend, 
who  reclined  on  the  sofa  and  regarded  him  with  a 
smile  exasperatingly  wise.  "You  know  I  'm  a  fool,  and 
why  can't  you  say  it  ?  A  man  at  my  time  of  life !  Do 
you  realize  that  I  am  twice  her  age  ?" 

And  he  went  on,  inveighing  now  against  the  pitiful- 
ly human  conventions  that  restrained  him  from  hurt- 
ing the  chit  of  a  child,  and  now  against  the  sorcery 


STELLA    MARIS  51 

with  which  she  contrived  to  invest  the  chamber  where- 
in she  dwelt. 

"And  at  my  age,  too,  when  I  've  run  the  whole 
gamut  of  human  misery,  the  whole  discordant  thing — 
toute  la  lyre — when  I  've  finished  with  the  blighting 
illusion  that  men  call  life;  when,  confound  it!  I  'm 
thirty." 

Sir  Oliver,  unable  to  sleep,  came  into  the  room  in 
dressing-gown  and  slippers.  He  looked  very  fragile 
and  broken. 

"Here  's  John,"  laughed  Herold,  "saying  that  he  's 
thirty,  and  an  old,  withered  man,  and  he  's  not  thirty. 
He  's  nine-and-twenty." 

Sir  Oliver  looked  at  John,  as  only  age,  with  awful 
wistfulness,  can  look  at  youth,  and  came  and  laid  his 
hand  upon  the  young  man  's  broad  shoulders. 

"My  lad,"  said  he,  "you  Ve  had  a  bad  time;  but 
you  're  young.  You  've  the  whole  of  your  life  before 
you.  Time,  my  dear  boy,  is  a  marvellous  solvent  of 
human  perplexity.  Once  in  a  new  world,  once  in  that 
astonishing  continent  of  Australia — " 

John  threw  a  half-finished  cigar  angrily  into  the  fire. 

"I  'm  not  going  to  the  damned  continent,"  said  he. 


CHAPTER  V 

THUS  it  came  to  pass  that,  for  the  sake  of  Stella- 
maris,  Risca  remained  in  London  and  fought 
with  beasts  in  Fenton  Square.    Sometimes  he 
got  the  better  of  the  beasts,  and  sometimes  the  beasts 
got  the  better  of  him.     On  the  former  occasions  he 
celebrated  the  victory  by  doing  an  extra  turn  of  work ; 
on  the  latter  he  sat  idly  growling  at  defeat. 

At  this  period  of  his  career  he  was  assistant-editor 
of  a  weekly  review,  in  charge  of  the  book-column  of 
an  evening  newspaper,  the  contributor  of  a  signed 
weekly  article  on  general  subjects  to  the  "Daily  Her- 
ald," and  of  a  weekly  London  letter  to  an  American 
syndicate.  From  this  it  will  be  seen  that  for  a  man 
not  yet  thirty  he  had  achieved  a  position  in  journalism 
envied  by  many  who  had  grown  gray-headed  in  the 
game.  But  as  Risca  had  written  three  or  four  novels 
which  had  all  been  rejected  by  all  the  publishers  in 
London,  he  chose  to  regard  himself  as  a  man  foiled 
in  his  ambitions.  He  saw  himself  doomed  to  failure. 
For  him  was  the  eternal  toil  of  ploughing  the  sand ;  the 
Garden  of  Delight  cultivated  by  the  happy  Blest — such 
as  Fawcus  of  the  club,  who  boasted  of  making  over  a 
thousand  pounds  for  every  novel  he  wrote,  and  of 
being  able  to  take  as  much  holiday  as  he  chose — had 
its  gilded  gates  closed  against  him  forever.  That  the 
man  of  nine-and-twenty  should  grow  embittered  be- 
cause he  was  not  accepted  by  the  world  as  a  brilliant 
novelist  is  a  matter  for  the  derision  of  the  middle- 
aged  and  for  the  pitying  smile  of  the  hoary;  but  it  is 

52 


STELLA   MARIS  53 

a  matter  of  woeful  concern  to  twenty-nine,  especially 
if  twenty-nine  be  a  young  man  of  a  saturnine  tempera- 
ment whom  fate  has  driven  to  take  himself  seriously. 
In  Risca's  life  there  were  misfortunes  the  reality  of 
the  pain  of  which  was  independent  of  age;  others 
which  were  relative,  as  inseparable  from  youth  as  the 
tears  for  a  bumped  head  are  inseparable  from  child- 
hood. Yet  to  the  man  they  were  all  equally  absolute. 
It  is  only  in  after-years,  when  one  looks  back  down 
the  vista,  that  one  can  differentiate. 

For  all  that  he  ought  to  have  given  himself  an- 
other decade  before  crying  himself  a  failure,  yet  a 
brilliant  young  journalist  who  has  not  found  a  pub- 
lisher for  one  of  four  novels  has  reasonable  excuse 
for  serious  cogitation.  There  are  scores  of  brilliant 
young  journalists  who  have  published  masterpieces  of 
fiction  before  they  are  thirty,  and  at  forty  have  gone 
on  their  knees  and  thanked  kind,  gentle  Time  for  his 
effacing  fingers ;  yet  the  novels  have  had  some  quality 
of  the  novel  warranting  their  publication.  At  any 
rate,  the  brilliant  young  journalists  have  believed  in 
them.  They  have  looked  upon  their  Creation  and 
found  that  it  was  good.  But  Risca,  looking  on  his 
Creation,  found  that  it  was  wood.  His  people  were 
as  wooden  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ham  in  a  Noah's  Ark ;  his 
scenery  was  as  wooden  as  the  trees  and  mountain  in 
a  toy  Swiss  village ;  his  dialogue  as  wooden  as  the  con- 
versation-blocks used  by  the  philosophers  of  Laputa. 
He  had  said,  in  an  outburst  of  wrathful  resentment, 
that  he  found  his  one  artistic  outlet  in  aiding  to  cre- 
ate Stella's  Land  of  Illusion;  and  he  was  right.  He 
was  despairingly  aware  of  the  lack  of  the  quick  fancy ; 
the  power  of  visualization;  the  sublimated  faculty  of 
the  child's  make-believe,  creating  out  of  trumpery  bits 
and  pieces  a  glowing  world  of  romance ;  the  ikeen,  in- 
stinctive knowledge  of  the  general  motives  of  human 


54  STELLA    MARIS 

action;  the  uncanny  insight  into  the  hearts  and  feel- 
ings of  beings  of  a  sex,  class,  or  type  different  from 
his  own ;  the  gift  of  evolving  from  a  tiny  broken  bone 
of  fact  a  perfect  creature  indisputably  real,  colouring  it 
with  the  hues  of  actuality  and  breathing  into  it  the 
breath  of  life — the  lack,  indeed,  of  all  the  essential 
qualities,  artistic  and  therefore  usually  instinctive, 
that  go  to  the  making  of  a  novelist.  Yet  Risca  was 
doggedly  determined  to  be  a  novelist  and  a  poet.  It 
was  pathetic.  How  can  a  man  who  cannot  distinguish 
between  "God  Save  the  King"  and  "Yankee  Doodle" 
hope  to  write  a  world-shaking  sonata?  Risca  knew 
that  he  was  crying  for  the  moon,  and  it  is  only  because 
he  cried  so  hard  for  it  that  he  deserved  any  serious 
commiseration. 

When  he  did  come  to  death-grapple  with  the  abso- 
lute, the  beasts  above  mentioned,  he  stood  out  a  tragic 
young  figure,  fiercely  alone  in  the  arena,  save  for  Her- 
old.  His  name,  uncommon  and  arresting,  had  one 
connotation  in  London — the  Case,  the  appalling  and 
abominable  Case.  Even  Ferguson  of  the  "Daily  Her- 
ald," who  had  evinced  such  sympathy  for  him  at  first, 
shrank  from  the  name  at  the  head  of  the  weekly  col- 
umn and  suggested  the  temporary  use  of  a  pseudonym. 
Had  it  not  been  for  Herold's  intervention,  Risca  would 
have  told  Ferguson  to  go  to  the  devil  and  would  have 
refused  to  work  for  his  Philistine  paper.  He  swal- 
lowed the  insult,  which  did  him  no  good.  He  refused 
to  carry  the  accursed  name  into  the  haunts  of  men. 

"Come  to  the  club,  at  any  rate,"  Herold  urged. 
"Every  man  there  is  loyal  to  you." 

"And  every  man  as  he  looks  at  me  will  have  on  his 
retina  not  a  picture  of  me,  but  a  picture  of  what  went 
on  in  that  house  in  Smith  Street." 

"Oh,  go  and  buy  a  serviceable  epidermis,"  cried 
Herold.  Argument  was  useless. 


STELLA    MARTS  55 

So  Risca  worked  like  a  mole  at  anonymous  journal- 
ism in  his  shabby  lodgings  where  Lilias  and  Niphetos 
were  suggested  only  by  a  mangy  tabby  who  occasion- 
ally prowled  into  his  sitting-room,  and  Arachne  pre- 
sided, indeed,  but  in  the  cobwebs  about  the  ceiling  in 
the  guise  which  she  had  been  compelled  to  take  by  the 
angry  god  when  the  world  was  young.  Only  when 
his  attendance  at  the  office  of  the  weekly  review  was 
necessary,  such  as  on  the  day  when  it  went  to  press, 
did  he  mingle  with  the  busy  world. 

"If  you  go  on  in  this  way,"  said  Herold,  "you  '11 
soon  have  as  much  idea  of  what  's  going  on  in  Lon- 
don as  a  lonely  dog  tied  up  in  a  kennel." 

"What  does  it  matter,"  growled  John,  "to  any  of 
the  besotted  fools  who  read  newspapers,  provided  I 
bark  loud  enough  ?" 

There  was  one  thing  going  on  in  London,  however, 
in  which  he  took  a  grim  interest,  and  that  was  the  con- 
valescence of  the  little  maid-of-all-work  who  had  been 
taken  back,  a  maimed  lamb,  to  the  cheerless  fold  where 
she  had  been  reared.  Thither  he  went  to  make  in- 
quiries as  soon  as  he  returned  from  Southcliff-on-Sea. 
He  found  the  Orphanage  of  St.  Martha  at  Willesden, 
a  poverty-stricken  building,  a  hopeless  parallelogram 
of  dingy,  yellow  brick,  standing  within  a  walled  in- 
closure.  There  were  no  trees  or  flowers,  for  the  yard 
was  paved.  His  ring  at  the  front  door  was  answered 
by  an  orphan  in  a  light  print  dress,  her  meagre  hair 
clutched  up  tight  in  a  knob  at  the  back.  He  asked 
for  the  superintendent  and  handed  his  card.  The  or- 
phan conducted  him  to  a  depressing  parlour,  and  van- 
ished. Presently  appeared  a  thin,  weary  woman, 
dressed  in  the  black  robes  of  a  Sister  of  Mercy,  who, 
holding  the  card  tight  in  nervous  fingers,  regarded 
him  with  an  air  of  mingled  fright  and  defiance. 

"Your  business?"  she  asked. 


56  STELLA    MARIS 

Despite  the  torture  of  it  all,  John  could  not  help 
smiling.  If  he  had  been  armed  with  a  knout,  his  re- 
ception could  not  have  been  more  hostile. 

"I  must  beg  of  you  to  believe,"  said  he,  "that  I 
come  as  a  friend  and  not  as  an  enemy." 

She  pointed  to  a  straight-backed  chair. 

"Will  you  be  seated?" 

"It  is  only  human,"  said  he,  "to  call  and  see  you, 
and  ask  after  that  unhappy  child." 

"She  is  getting  on,"  said  the  Sister  superintendent, 
frostily,  "as  well  as  can  be  expected." 

"Which  means?  Please  tell  me.  I  am  here  to 
know." 

"She  will  take  some  time  to  recover  from  her  in- 
juries, and  of  course  her  nerve  is  broken." 

"I  'm  afraid,"  said  John,  "your  institution  can't  af- 
ford many  invalid's  luxuries." 

"None  at  all,"  replied  the  weary-faced  woman. 
"She  gets  proper  care  and  attention,  however." 

John  drew  out  a  five-pound  note.  "Can  you  buy  her 
any  little  things  with  this?  When  you  have  spent  it, 
if  you  will  tell  me,  I  '11  send  you  another." 

"It  's  against  our  rules,"  said  the  Sister,  eying  the 
money.  "If  you  like  to  give  it  as  a  subscription  to  the 
general  funds,  I  will  accept  it." 

"Are  you  badly  off?"  asked  John. 

"We  are  very  slenderly  endowed." 

John  pushed  the  note  across  the  small  table  near 
which  they  were  sitting. 

"In  return,"  said  he,  "I  hope  you  will  allow  me  to 
send  in  some  jellies  and  fruits,  or  appliances,  or  what- 
ever may  be  of  pleasure  or  comfort  to  the  child." 

"  Whatever  you  send  her  that  is  practical  shall  be 
applied  to  her  use,"  said  the  Sister  superintendent. 

She  was  cold,  unemotional ;  no  smile,  no  ghost  even 
of  departed  smiles,  seemed  ever  to  visit  the  tired,  gray 


STELLA   MARTS  57 

eyes  or  the  corners  of  the  rigid  mouth ;  coif  and  face 
and  thin  hands  were  spotless.  She  did  not  even  thank 
him  for  his  forced  gift  to  the  orphanage. 

"I  should  like  to  know,"  said  John,  regarding  her 
beneath  frowning  brows,  "whether  any  one  here  loves 
the  unhappy  little  wretch." 

"These  children,"  replied  the  Sister  superintendent, 
"have  naturally  a  hard  battle  to  fight  when  they  go 
from  here  into  the  world.  They  come  mostly  from 
vicious  classes.  Their  training  is  uniformly  kind,  but 
it  has  to  be  austere." 

John  rose.  "I  will  bring  what  things  I  can  think  of 
to-morrow." 

The  Sister  superintendent  rose,  too,  and  bowed  icily. 
"You  are  at  liberty  to  do  so,  Mr.  Risca ;  but  I  assure 
you  there  is  no  reason  for  your  putting  yourself  to  the 
trouble.  In  the  circumstances  I  can  readily  under- 
stand your  solicitude;  but  again  I  say  you  have  no 
cause  for  it." 

"Madam,"  said  he,  "I  see  that  I  have  more  cause 
than  ever." 

The  next  day  he  drove  to  the  orphanage  in  a  cab, 
with  a  hamper  of  delicacies  and  a  down  pillow.  The 
latter  the  Sister  superintendent  rejected.  Generally,  it 
was  against  the  regulations  and,  particularly,  it  was 
injudicious.  Down  pillows  would  not  be  a  factor  in 
Unity  Blake's  after-life. 

"Besides,"  she  remarked,  "she  is  not  the  only  or- 
phan in  the  infirmary." 

"Why  not  call  it  a  sick-room  or  sick-ward  instead 
of  that  prison  term?"  asked  John. 

"It 's  the  name  given  to  it  by  the  governing  body," 
she  replied. 

After  this  John  became  a  regular  visitor.  Every 
time  he  kicked  his  heels  for  ten  minutes  in  the  shabby 
and  depressing  parlour  and  every  time  he  was  received 


58  STELLA   MARIS 

with  glacial  politeness  by  the  Sister  superintendent. 
By  blunt  questioning  he  learned  the  history  of  the  in- 
stitution. The  Sisterhood  of  Saint  Martha  was  an 
Angelican  body  with  headquarters  in  Kent,  which  ex- 
isted for  meditation  and  not  for  philanthropic  pur- 
poses. The  creation  and  conduct  of  the  orphanage 
had  been  thrust  upon  the  sisterhood  by  the  will  of  a 
member  long  since  deceased.  It  was  unpopular  with 
the  sisterhood,  who  resented  it  as  an  excrescence,  but 
bore  it  as  an  affliction  decreed  by  divine  Providence. 
Among  the  cloistered  'inmates  of  the  Kentish  manor- 
house  there  was  no  fanatical  impulse  towards  Willes- 
den.  They  were  good,  religious  women;  but  they 
craved  retirement,  and  not  action,  for  the  satisfying 
of  their  spiritual  needs.  Otherwise  they  would  have 
joined  some  other  sisterhood  in  which  noble  lives  are 
spent  in  deeds  of  charity  and  love.  But  there  are  an- 
gels of  wrath,  angels  of  mercy,  and  mere  angels. 
These  were  mere  angels.  The  possibility  of  being 
chosen  by  the  Mother  Superior  to  go  out  into  the 
world  again  and  take  charge  of  the  education,  health, 
and  morals  of  twenty  sturdy  and  squalid  little  female 
orphans  lived  an  abiding  terror  in  their  gentle  breasts. 
A  shipwrecked  crew  casting  lots  for  the  next  occupant 
of  the  kettle  could  suffer  no  greater  pangs  of  appre- 
hension than  did  the  Sisters  of  Saint  Martha  on  the 
imminence  of  an  appointment  to  the  orphanage.  They 
had  taken  vows  of  obedience.  The  Mother  Superior's 
selection  was  final.  The  unfortunate  nominee  had  to 
pack  up  her  slender  belongings  and  go  to  Willesden. 
Being  a  faulty  human  being  (and  none  but  a  faulty, 
unpractical,  unsympathetic  human  being  can  want,  in 
these  days  of  enlightenment,  to  shut  herself  up  in  a 
nunnery  for  the  rest  of  her  life,  with  the  avowed  in- 
tention of  never  doing  a  hand's  turn  for  any  one  of 
God's  creatures  until  the  day  of  her  death),  she  in- 


STELLA    MARIS  59 

variably  regarded  herself  as  a  holy  martyr  and  ruled 
the  poor  little  devils  of  orphans  for  the  greater  glory 
of  God  (magnified  entirely,  be  it  understood,  by  her 
own  martyrdom)  than  for  the  greater  happiness  of 
the  poor  little  devils. 

Sister  Theophila — in  entering  into  religion  the  Prot- 
estant Sisters  changed  the  names  by  which  they  were 
known  in  the  world,  according  to  the  time-honoured 
tradition  of  an  alien  church — Sister  Theophila,  with 
the  temperament  of  the  recluse,  had  been  thrust  into 
this  position  of  responsibility  against  her  will.  She 
performed  her  duties  with  scrupulous  exactitude  and 
pious  resignation.  Her  ideal  of  life  was  the  ascetic, 
and  to  this  ideal  the  twenty  orphans  had  to  conform. 
She  did  not  love  the  orphans. 

Her  staff  consisted  of  one  matron,  a  married  woman 
of  a  much  humbler  class  than  her  own.  Possibly  she 
might  have  loved  the  orphans  had  she  not  seen  such 
a  succession  of  them,  and  her  own  work  been  less  har- 
assing. Twenty  female  London  orphans  from  disrep- 
utable homes  are  a  tough  handful.  When  you  insist 
on  their  conformity  with  the  ascetic  ideal,  they  become 
tougher.  They  will  not  allow  themselves  to  be 
loved. 

"And  ungrateful!"  exclaimed  the  matron,  one  day 
when  she  was  taking  Risca  round  the  institution.  He 
had  expressed  to  Sister  Theophila  his  desire  to  visit 
it,  and  she,  finding  him  entirely  unsympathetic,  had 
handed  him  over  to  her  subordinate.  "None  of  them 
know  what  gratitude  is.  As  soon  as  they  get  out  of 
here,  they  forget  everything  that  has  been  done  for 
them;  and  as  for  coming  back  to  pay  their  respects, 
or  writing  a  letter  even,  they  never  think  of  it." 

Kitchen,  utensils,  floors,  walls,  dormitory,  orphans 
— all  were  spotlessly  clean,  the  orphans  sluiced  and 
scrubbed  from  morning  to  night;  but  of  things  that 


60  STELLA    MARIS 

might  give  a  little  hint  of  the  joy  of  life  there  was  no 
sign. 

"This  is  the  infirmary,"  said  the  matron,  with  her 
hand  on  the  door-knob. 

"I  should  like  to  see  it,"  said  John. 

They  entered.  An  almost  full-grown  orphan,  doing 
duty  as  nurse,  rose  from  her  task  of  plain  sewing  and 
bobbed  a  curtsy.  The  room  was  clean,  comfortless, 
dark,  and  cold.  Two  pictures,  prints  of  the  Cruci- 
fixion and  the  Martyrdom  of  St.  Stephen,  hung  on  the 
walls.  There  were  three  narrow,  hard  beds,  two  of 
which  were  occupied.  Some  grapes  on  a  chair  beside 
one  of  them  marked  the  patient  in  whom  he  was  in- 
terested. John  noticed  angrily  that  some  flowers 
which  he  had  sent  the  day  before  had  been  confis- 
cated. 

"This  is  the  gentleman  who  has  been  so  kind  to 
you,"  said  the  matron. 

Unity  Blake  looked  wonderingly  into  the  dark,  rug- 
ged face  of  the  man  who  stood  over  her  and  regarded 
her  with  mingled  pain  and  pity.  They  had  not  told 
her  his  name.  This,  then,  was  the  unknown  benefac- 
tor whose  image,  like  that  of  some  elusive  Apollo, 
Giver  of  Things  Beautiful,  had  haunted  her  poor 
dreams. 

"Can't  you  say,  'Thank  you?'  "  said  the  matron. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Unity  Blake. 

Even  in  those  three  words  her  accent  was  unmistak- 
ably cockney — as  unmistakably  cockney  as  the  coarse- 
featured,  snub-nosed,  common  little  face.  In  happier, 
freer  conditions  she  would  have  done  her  skimpy  hair 
up  in  patent  curlers  and  worn  a  hat  with  a  purple 
feather,  and  joined  heartily  in  the  raucous  merriment 
of  her  comrades  at  the  pickle- factory.  Here,  however, 
she  was  lying,  poor  little  devil,  thought  Risca,  warped 
from  childhood  by  the  ascetic  ideal,  and  wrecked  body 


STELLA   MARIS  61 

and  spirit  by  unutterable  cruelty.  In  her  eyes  flickered 
the  patient  apprehension  of  the  ill-treated  dog. 

"I  hope  you  will  soon  get  better,"  he  said,  with 
sickening  knowledge  of  that  which  lay  hidden  beneath 
the  rough  bedclothes. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Unity. 

"It  's  chiefly  her  nerves  now,"  said  the  matron. 
"She  hollers  out  of  nights,  so  she  can't  be  put  into  the 
dormitory." 

"Do  you  like  the  things  I  send  you  ?"  asked  John. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Is  there  anything  special  you  'd  like  to  have  ?" 

"No,  sir." 

But  he  caught  a  certain  wistfulness  in  her  glance. 

"She  does  n't  want  anything  at  all,"  said  the  matron, 
and  the  girl's  eyelids  fluttered.  "She  's  being  spoiled 
too  much  as  it  is  already." 

John  bent  his  heavy  brows  on  the  woman.  She 
spoke  not  shrewishly,  not  unkindly,  merely  with  lack 
of  love  and  understanding.  He  repressed  the  bitter 
retort  that  rose  to  his  lips.  But  at  the  same  time  a 
picture  rose  before  him  of  another  sick-room,  a  dainty 
sea-chamber  open  to  sun  and  sky,  where  pillows  of 
down  were  not  forbidden,  where  flowers  and  exquisite 
colours  and  shapes  gladdened  the  eye,  where  Love, 
great  and  warm  and  fulfilling,  hovered  over  the  bed. 
No  gulls  with  round,  yellow  eyes  came  to  the  windows 
of  this  whitewashed  prison  with  messages  from  the 
world  of  air  and  sea;  no  Exquisite  Auntship,  no  Great 
High  Favourite,  no  Lord  High  Constable,  executed 
their  high  appointed  functions;  no  clock  with  chimes 
like  a  bell  swung  in  a  sea-cave  told  the  hours  to  this 
orphan  child  of  misery.  He  realized  in  an  odd  way 
that  Stellamaris,  too,  was  an  orphan.  And  he  remem- 
bered, from  the  awful  evidence,  that  this  child  was 
just  over  fifteen — Stella's  age.  Again  rose  the  picture 


62  STELLA    MARIS 

of  the  cherished  one  in  her  daintily  ribboned  dressing- 
jacket,  as  filmy  and  unsubstantial  as  if  made  of  sea- 
foam,  with  her  pure,  happy  face,  her  mysterious, 
brown  pools  of  eyes,  her  hair  lovingly  brushed  to  ca- 
ressing softness ;  and  he  looked  down  on  Unity  Blake. 
Man  though  he  was,  the  bit  of  clean  sail-cloth  that  did 
duty  as  a  nightgown  moved  his  compassion. 

He  did  his  best  to  talk  with  her  awhile ;  but  it  was 
a  one-sided  conversation,  as  the  child  could  reply  only 
in  monosyllables.  The  matron  fidgeted  impatiently, 
and  he  said  good-bye.  Her  wistful  glance  followed 
him  to  the  door.  Outside  he  turned. 

"There  is  just  one  thing  I  want  to  say  to  her." 

He  left  the  matron  and  darted  back  into  the  room. 

"I  'm  sure  there  must  be  something  you  would  like 
me  to  bring  you/'  he  whispered.  "Don't  be  afraid. 
Any  mortal  thing." 

The  child's  lips  twitched  and  she  looked  nervously 
from  side  to  side. 

"What  is  it?  Tell  me." 

"Oh,  sir,"  she  pleaded  breathlessly,  "might  I  have 
some  peppermint  bull's-eyes." 

WHEN  Herold  returned  to  his  dressing-room  after  the 
first  act, — the  piece  for  which  he  had  been  rehearsing 
had  started  a  successful  career, — he  found  Risca  sit- 
ting in  a  straight-backed  chair  and  smoking  a  pipe. 

"Hallo,  John!  I  did  n't  know  you  were  in  front. 
Why  did  n't  you  tell  me?  It  's  going  splendidly,  is 
n't  it?" 

He  glowed  with  the  actor's  excited  delight  in  an  au- 
dience's enthusiastic  reception  of  a  new  play.  His 
glow  sat  rather  oddly  upon  him,  for  he  was  made  up 
as  a  decrepit  old  man,  with  bald  wig,  and  heavy,  blue 
patches  beneath  his  eyes. 

"No,  I  'm  not  in  front,"  said  John. 


STELLA    MARIS  63 

"I  see  now,"  smiled  Herold,  glancing  at  his  friend's 
loose  tweed  suit.  No  clothes  morning  or  evening  ever 
fitted  Risca.  Herold  called  him  "The  Tailors'  Ter- 
ror." 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you,  Wallie,"  said  he. 

"Have  a  drink?  No?  I  sha'  n't  want  anything, 
Perkins,"  said  he  to  the  waiting  dresser.  "Call  me 
when  I  'm  on  in  the  second  act.  I  don't  change,"  he 
explained. 

"I  know,"  said  John.  "That  's  why  I  've  come 
now." 

"What  's  the  matter?"  Herold  asked,  sitting  in  the 
chair  before  the  dressing-table,  bright  with  mirrors 
and  electric  lights  and  sticks  of  grease  paint  and  silver- 
topped  pots  and  other  paraphernalia. 

"Nothing  particular.  Only  hell,  just  as  usual.  I 
saw  that  child  to-day." 

Herold  lit  a  cigarette. 

"Have  you  ever  speculated  on  what  becomes  of  the 
victims  in  cases  of  this  kind?"  asked  John. 

"Not  particularly,"  said  Herold,  seeing  that  John 
wanted  to  talk. 

"What  do  you  think  can  become  of  a  human  crea- 
ture in  the  circumstances  of  this  poor  little  wretch? 
Her  childhood  is  one  vista  of  bleak  ugliness.  Never 
a  toy,  never  a  kiss,  not  even  the  freedom  of  the  gut- 
ter. Unless  you  Ve  been  there,  you  can't  conceive 
the  soul-crushing  despair  of  that  infernal  orphanage. 
She  leaves  it  and  goes  into  the  world.  She  goes  out 
of  a  kind  of  dreary  Greek  hades  into  a  Christian  hell. 
It  lasted  for  months.  She  was  too  ignorant  and  spirit- 
less to  complain,  and  to  whom  was  she  to  complain? 
Now  she  's  sent  back  again,  just  like  a  sick  animal,  to 
hades.  Fancy,  they  would  n't  let  her  have  a  few  flow- 
ers in  the  room!  It  makes  me  mad  to  think  of  it. 
And  when  she  gets  well  again,  she  '11  have  to  earn  her 


64  STELLA    MARIS 

living  as  a  little  slave  in  some  squalid  household.  But 
what  's  going  to  become  of  that  human  creature  mor- 
ally and  spiritually?  That  's  what  I  want  to  know." 

"It  's  an  interesting  problem,"  said  Herold.  "She 
may  be  either  a  benumbed  half-idiot  or  a  vicious,  vin- 
dictive she-brute." 

"Just  so,"  said  John.  "That  is,  if  she  goes  to  slave 
in  some  squalid  household.  But  suppose  she  were 
transferred  to  different  surroundings  altogether  ?  Sup- 
pose she  had  ease  of  life,  lovin^  care,  and  all  the  rest 
of  it?" 

The  senile  travesty  of  Herold  laughed. 

"You  want  me  to  say  that  she  may  develop  into 
some  sort  of  flower  of  womanhood." 

"Do  you  think  she  might  ?"  John  asked  seriously. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Herold,  "there  are  Heaven 
knows  how  many  hundred  million  human  beings  on 
the  face  of  the  earth,  and  every  one  of  them  is  dif- 
ferent from  the  others.  How  can  one  tell  what  any 
particular  young  woman  whom  one  does  n't  know 
might  or  might  not  do  in  given  circumstances?  But 
if  you  want  me  to  say  whether  I  think  it  right  for 
you  to  step  in  and  look  after  the  poor  little  devil's  fu- 
ture, then  I  do  say  it  's  right.  It  's  stunning  of  you. 
It  's  the  very  best  thing  you  can  do.  It  will  give  the 
poor  little  wretch  a  chance,  at  any  rate,  and  will  give 
you  something  outside  yourself  to  think  of." 

"I  was  going  to  do  it  whether  you  thought  it  right 
or  not,"  said  Risca. 

Herold  laughed  again.  "For  a  great,  hulking  bull 
of  a  man  you  're  sometimes  very  feminine,  John." 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  about  it,  that  's  all,"  said 
Risca.  "I  made  up  my  mind  this  afternoon.  The  only 
thing  is  what  the  deuce  am  I  to  do  with  a  child  of 
fifteen  in  Fenton  Square?" 

"Is  she  pretty?" 


STELLA   MARIS  65 

"Lord,  no.  Coarse,  undersized  little  cockney,  ugly 
as  sin." 

"Anyhow,"  said  Herold,  extinguishing  his  cigarette 
in  the  ash-tray,  "it  's  out  of  the  question."  He  rose 
from  his  chair.  "Look  here,"  he  cried  with  an  air  of 
inspiration,  "why  not  send  her  down  to  The  Channel 
House?" 

"I  'm  not  going  to  shift  responsibilities  on  to  other 
people's  shoulders,"  John  growled  in  his  obstinate  way. 
"This  child  's  my  responsibility.  I  'm  going  to  see 
her  through  somehow.  As  to  Southcliff,  you  must  be 
crazy  to  suggest  it.  What  's  to  prevent  her,  one  fine 
day,  from  getting  into  Stella's  room  and  talking  ?  My 
God!  it  would  be  appalling!" 

Herold  agreed.     He  had  spoken  thoughtlessly. 

"I  should  just  think  so,"  said  Risca.  "The  idea  of 
such  a  tale  of  horror  being  told  in  that  room — " 

The  dresser  entered.  "Miss  Mercier  has  just  gone 
on,  sir." 

"Well,  just  think  out  something  else  till  I  come 
back,"  said  Herold.  "At  any  rate,  Fenton  Square 
won't  do." 

He  left  John  to  smoke  and  meditate  among  the 
clothes  hanging  up  on  pegs  and  the  framed  photo- 
graphs on  the  walls  and  the  array  of  grease  paints  on 
the  dressing-table.  John  walked  up  and  down  the 
narrow  space  in  great  perplexity  of  mind.  Herold 
was  right.  He  could  not  introduce  Unity  Blake  into 
lodgings,  saying  that  he  had  adopted  her.  Landladies 
would  not  stand  it.  Even  if  they  would,  what  in  the 
world  could  he  do  with  her?  Could  he  move  into  a 
house  or  a  flat  and  persuade  a  registry-office  to  pro- 
vide him  with  a  paragon  of  a  housekeeper?  That 
would  be  more  practicable.  But,  even  then,  what  did 
he  know  of  the  training,  moral  and  spiritual,  neces- 
sary for  a  girl  of  fifteen?  He  was  not  going  to  em- 


66  STELLA   MARIS 

ploy  her  as  a  servant.  On  that  he  was  decided.  What 
sort  of  a  position  she  should  have  he  did  not  know; 
but  her  floor-scrubbing,  dish-scraping  days  were  over. 
She  should  have  ease  of  life  and  loving  care — his  own 
phrase  stuck  in  his  head — especially  loving  care;  and 
he  was  the  only  person  in  the  world  who  could  see  that 
she  got  it.  She  must  live  under  his  roof.  That  was 
indisputable.  But  how?  In  lodgings  or  a  flat?  He 
went  angrily  round  and  round  the  vicious  circle. 

When  Herold  returned,  he  dragged  him  round  and 
round,  too,  until  Perkins  appeared  to  help  him  to 
change  for  the  third  act.  Then  John  had  to  stop.  He 
clapped  on  his  hat.  He  must  go  and  work. 

"And  you  have  n't  a  single  suggestion  to  make?" 
he  asked. 

"I  have  one,"  said  Herold,  fastening  his  shirt-studs 
while  Perkins  was  buttoning  his  boots.  "But  it  's  so 
commonplace  and  unromantic  that  you  'd  wreck  the 
dressing-room  if  I  made  it." 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  He  stood,  his  hand  on  the 
door-knob. 

"You  've  got  a  maiden  aunt  somewhere,  have  n't 
you?" 

"Oh,  don't  talk  rot!"  said  John.  "I'm  dead  se- 
rious." 

And  he  went  out  and  banged  the  door  behind  him. 
He  walked  the  streets  furiously  angry  with  Herold. 
He  had  gone  to  consult  him  on  a  baffling  problem. 
Herold  had  suggested  a  maiden  aunt  as  a  solution. 
He  had  but  one,  his  mother's  sister.  Her  name  was 
Gladys.  What  was  a  woman  of  over  fifty  doing  with 
such  an  idiot  name?  His  Aunt  Gladys  lived  at  Croy- 
don  and  spent  her  time  solving  puzzles  and  following 
the  newspaper  accounts  of  the  doings  of  the  royal 
family.  She  knew  nothing.  He  remembered  when 
he  was  a  boy  at  school  coming  home  for  the  holidays 


STELLA    MARIS  67 

cock-a- whoop  at  having  won  the  high  jump  in  the 
school  athletics  sports.  His  Aunt  Gladys,  while  pro- 
fessing great  interest,  had  said,  "But  what  I  don't 
understand,  dear,  is — what  do  you  get  on  to  jump 
down  from?"  He  had  smiled  and  explained,  but  he 
had  felt  cold  in  the  pit  of  his  stomach.  A  futile  lady. 
His  opinion  of  her  had  not  changed.  In  these  days 
John  was  rather  an  intolerant  fellow. 

Chance  willed  it,  however,  that  when  he  reached 
Fenton  Square  he  found  a  letter  which  began  "My 
dearest  John"  and  ended  "Your  loving  Aunt  Gladys." 
And  it  was  the  letter  of  a  very  sweet-natured  gentle- 
woman. 

John  sat  down  at  his  desk  to  work,  but  ideas  would 
not  come.  At  last  he  lit  his  pipe,  threw  himself  into 
a  chair  in  front  of  the  fire,  and  smoked  till  past  mid- 
night, with  his  heavy  brows  knitted  in  a  tremendous 
frown. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  same  frown  darkened  Risca's  brow  tHe  next 
day  as  he  waited  for  admittance  at  his  Aunt 
Gladys's  door.  It  was  such  a  futile  little 
door  to  such  a  futile  little  house;  he  could  have 
smashed  in  the  former  with  a  blow  of  his  fist,  and  he 
could  have  jumped  into  the  latter  through  the  first- 
floor  windows.  With  his  great  bulk  he  felt  himself 
absurdly  out  of  scale.  The  tragedy  looming  huge 
in  his  mind  was  also  absurdly  out  of  scale  with  his 
errand.  The  house  was  one  of  a  row  of  twenty  perky, 
gabled,  two-storied  little  villas,  each  coyly  shrinking 
to  the  farthermost  limit  of  its  tiny  front  garden,  and 
each  guarding  the  privacy  of  its  interior  by  means  of 
muslin  curtains  at  the  windows,  tied  back  by  ribbons, 
the  resultant  triangle  of  transparency  being  obscured 
by  a  fat-leafed  plant.  The  terrace  bore  the  name  of 
"Tregarthion  Villas,"  and  the  one  inhabited  by  Miss 
Lindon  was  called  "The  Oaks."  It  was  a  sham  little 
terrace  full  of  sham  little  gentilities.  John  hated  it. 
What  could  have  induced  his  mother's  sister  to  inhabit 
such  a  sphere  of  flimsiness  ? 

Flimsiness,  also,  met  him  inside,  when  he  was  shown 
through  a  bamboo-furnished  passage  into  a  gimcrack 
little  drawing-room.  He  tried  several  chairs  dubiously 
with  his  hand,  shook  his  head,  and  seated  himself  on 
a  couch.  Everything  in  the  room  seemed  flimsy  and 
futile.  He  had  the  impression  that  everything  save 
a  sham  spinning-wheel  and  a  half-solved  jig-saw 

68 


STELLA    MARIS  69 

puzzle  on  the  little  table  was  draped  in  muslin  and 
tied  up  with  pink  ribbons.  A  decrepit  black-and-tan 
terrier,  disturbed  in  his  slumbers  in  front  of  the  fire, 
barked  violently.  A  canary  in  a  cage  by  the  window 
sang  in  discordant  emulation.  John  poised  his  hat 
and  stick  on  the  curved  and  slippery  satin-covered 
couch,  and  they  fell  with  a  clatter  to  the  floor.  The 
frown  deepened  on  his  brow.  Why  had  he  come  to 
this  distracting-  abode  of  mindlessness  ?  He  wished 
he  had  brought  Herold  gyved  and  manacled.  What 
with  the  dog  and  the  canary  and  the  doll's-house  fur- 
niture, the  sensitive  and  fastidious  one  would  have 
gone  mad.  He  would  have  gloated  over  his  ravings. 
It  would  have  served  him  right. 

The  door  opened  suddenly,  the  draught  blowing 
down  a  fan  and  a  photograph-frame,  and  Miss  Lindon 
entered. 

"My  dear  John,  how  good  of  you  to  come  and  see 
me!" 

She  was  a  fat,  dumpy  woman  of  fifty,  lymphatic  and, 
at  first  sight,  characterless.  She  lacked  colour.  Her 
eyes  were  light,  but  neither  blue  nor  green  nor  hazel ; 
her  straight  hair  was  of  the  nondescript  hue  of  light- 
brown  hair  turning  gray.  Her  face  was  fleshy  and 
sallow,  marked  by  singularly  few  lines.  She  had  lived 
a  contented  life,  unscarred  by  care  and  unruffled  by 
desire.  Her  dreams  of  the  possibilities  of  existence 
did  not  pierce  beyond  the  gimcrackeries  of  Tregarthion 
Villas.  As  for  the  doings  of  the  great  world, — wars, 
politics,  art,  social  upheavals, — she  bestowed  on  them, 
when  they  were  obtruded  on  her  notice,  the  same  po- 
lite and  unintelligent  interest  as  she  had  bestowed 
on  her  nephew's  athletic  feats  in  the  days  gone  by. 

However,  she  smiled  very  amiably  at  John,  and 
reached  up  to  kiss  him  on  both  cheeks,  her  flabby, 
white  hands  lightly  resting  on  each  coat-sleeve.  Hav- 


70  STELLA   MARIS 

ing  done  this,  she  caught  up  the  barking  dog,  who 
continued  to  growl  from  the  soft  shelter  of  arm  and 
bosom  with  the  vindictiveness  of  pampered  old  age. 

"Naughty  Dandy !  I  hope  you  were  n't  frightened 
at  him,  John.  He  never  really  does  bite." 

"What  does  he  do  then?  Sting?"  John  asked  with 
gruff  sarcasm. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Miss  Lindon,  round-eyed;  "he  's 
quite  harmless,  I  assure  you.  Don't  you  remember 
Dandy?  But  it  's  a  long  time  since  you  've  been  to 
see  me,  John.  It  must  be  three  or  four  years.  What 
have  you  been  doing  all  this  time  ?" 

Her  complacency  irritated  him.  The  canary  never 
ceased  his  ear-splitting  noise.  The  canary  is  a  beau- 
tiful, gentle  bird — stuffed;  alive,  he  is  pestilence  made 
vocal.  Risca  lost  his  temper. 

"Surely  you  must  know,  Aunt  Gladys.  I  've  been 
wandering  through  hell  with  a  pack  of  little  devils  at 
my  heels." 

Startled,  she  lifted  up  her  arms  and  dropped  Dandy, 
who  slithered  down  her  dress  and  sought  a  morose 
shelter  under  the  table. 

"My  dear  John !"  she  exclaimed. 

"I  'm  very  sorry;  I  did  n't  mean  to  use  strong  lan- 
guage," said  he,  putting  his  hands  to  his  ears.  "It  's 
all  that  infernal  canary." 

"Oh,  poor  Dickie!  Don't  you  like  to  hear  Dickie 
sing?  He  sings  so  beautifully.  The  gas-man  was 
here  the  other  day  and  said  that,  if  I  liked,  he  would 
enter  him  for  a  competition,  and  he  was  sure  he  would 
get  first  prize.  But  if  you  don't  like  to  hear  him,  dear 
— though  I  really  can't  understand  why — I  can  easily 
make  him  stop."  She  drew  a  white  napkin  from  the 
drawer  of  the  table  on  which  the  cage  was  placed  and 
threw  it  over  the  top.  The  feathered  steam-whistle 
swallowed  his  din  in  an  angry  gurgle  or  two  and  be- 


STELLA   MARIS  71 

came  silent.  "Poor  Dickie,  he  thinks  it  's  a  snow- 
storm! What  were  we  talking  about,  John?  Do  sit 
down." 

John  resumed  his  seat  on  the  slippery  couch,  and 
Miss  Lindon,  having  snatched  Dandy  from  his  lair, 
sat  by  his  side,  depositing  the  dog  between  them. 

"You  asked  me  what  I  had  been  doing  for  the  last 
few  years,"  said  he. 

"Ah,  yes.  That  's  why  I  wrote  to  you  yesterday, 
dear." 

She  had  written  to  him,  in  fact,  every  month  for 
many  years,  long,  foolish  letters  in  which  everything 
was  futile  save  the  genuine  affection  underlying  them, 
and  more  often  than  not  John  had  taken  them  as  read 
and  pitched  them  into  the  waste-paper  basket.  His 
few  perfunctory  replies,  however,  had  been  treasured 
and  neatly  docketed  and  pigeon-holed  in  the  bureau 
in  her  bedroom,  together  with  the  rest  of  her  family 
archives  and  other  precious  documents.  Among  them 
was  a  famous  recipe  for  taking  mulberry  stains  out 
of  satin.  That  she  prized  inordinately. 

"I  should  n't  like  to  drift  apart  from  dear  Ellen's 
boy,"  she  said  with  a  smile. 

"And  I  should  n't  like  to  lose  touch  with  you,  my 
dear  aunt,"  said.  John,  with  more  graciousness.  "And 
that  is  why  I  've  come  to  see  you  to-day.  I  've  had 
rather  a  bad  time  lately." 

"I  know — that  awful  case  in  the  papers."  She  shiv- 
ered. "Don't  let  us  talk  of  it.  You  must  try  to  for- 
get it.  I  wrote  to  you  how  shocked  I  was.  I  asked 
you  to  come  and  stay  with  me,  and  said  I  would  do 
what  I  could  to  comfort  you.  I  believe  in  the  ties  of 
kinship,  my  dear,  and  I  did  n't  like  to  think  of  you 
bearing  your  trouble  alone." 

"That  was  very  kind  indeed  of  you,"  said  John,  who 
had  missed  the  invitation  hidden  away  in  the  wilder- 


72  STELLA   MARIS 

ness  of  the  hastily  scanned  sixteen-page  letter.  He 
flushed  beneath  his  dark  skin,  aware  of  rudeness. 
After  all,  when  a  lady  invites  you  to  her  house,  it  is 
boorish  to  ignore  the  offered  hospitality.  It  is  a  slight 
for  which  one  can  scarcely  apologize.  But  she  evi- 
dently bore  him  no  malice. 

"It  was  only  natural  on  my  part,"  she  said  amiably. 
"I  shall  never  forget  when  poor  Flossie  died.  You 
remember  Flossie,  don't  you?  She  used  to  look  so 
pretty,  with  her  blue  bow  in  her  hair,  and  no  one 
will  ever  persuade  me  that  she  was  n't  poisoned  by 
the  people  next  door;  they  were  dreadful  people.  I 
wish  I  could  remember  their  name ;  it  was  something 
like  Blunks.  Anyhow,  I  was  inconsolable,  and  Mrs. 
Rawley  asked  me  to  stay  with  her  to  get  over  it.  I 
shall  never  forget  how  grateful  I  was.  I  'm  sure 
you  're  looking  quite  poorly,  John,"  she  added  in  her 
inconsequent  way.  "Let  me  get  you  a  cup  of  tea.  It 
will  do  you  good." 

John  declined.  He  wanted  to  accomplish  his  er- 
rand, but  the  longer  he  remained  in  the  company  of 
this  lady  devoid  of  the  sense  of  values,  the  more  ab- 
surd did  that  errand  seem.  A  less  obstinate  man  than 
he  would  have  abandoned  it,  but  John  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  act  on  Herold's  suggestion,  although  he 
mentally  bespattered  the  suggester  with  varied  male- 
diction. He  rose  and,  making  his  way  between  the 
flimsy  chairs  and  tables,  stood  on  the  hearth-rug,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets.  Unconsciously  he  scowled  at 
his  placid  and  smiling  aunt,  who  remained  seated  on' 
the  couch,  her  helpless  hands  loosely  folded  on  her  lap. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  child  called  Unity  Blake?" 

"Was  that  the  girl—" 

"Yes." 

"What  an  outlandish  name!  I  often  wonder  how 
people  come  to  give  such  names  to  children." 


STELLA    MARIS  73 

"Never  mind  her  name,  my  dear  aunt,"  said  John, 
gruffly.  "I  want  to  tell  you  about  her." 

He  told  her — he  told  her  all  he  knew.  She  listened, 
horror-stricken,  regarding  him  with  open  mouth  and 
streaming  eyes. 

"And  what  do  you  think  is  my  duty?"  asked  John, 
abruptly. 

Miss  Lindon  shook  her  head.  "I  'm  sure  I  don't 
know  what  to  advise  you,  dear.  I  '11  try  to  find  out 
some  kind  Christian  people  who  want  a  servant." 

"I  don't  want  any  kind  Christian  people  at  all," 
said  John.  "I  'm  going  to  make  up  in  ease  and  happi- 
ness for  all  the  wrongs  that  humanity  has  inflicted  on 
her.  I  am  going  to  adopt  her,  educate  her,  fill  her  up 
with  the  good  things  of  life." 

"That  's  very  fine  of  you,  John,"  said  Miss  Lindon. 
"Some  people  are  as  fond  of  their  adopted  children 
as  of  their  own.  I  remember  Miss  Engleshaw  adopted 
a  little  child.  She  was  four,  if  I  remember  right,  and 
she  used  to  dress  her  so  prettily.  I  used  to  go  and 
help  her  choose  frocks.  Really  they  were  quite  expen- 
sive. Now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  John,  I  could  help 
you  that  way  with  little  Unity.  I  don't  think  gentle- 
men have  much  experience  in  choosing  little  girls' 
frocks.  How  old  is  she?" 

"Nearly  sixteen,"  said  John. 

"That 's  rather  old,"  said  Miss  Lindon,  from  whose 
mind  this  new  interest  seemed  to  have  driven  the 
tragic  side  of  the  question.  "It  's  a  pity  you  could  n't 
have  begun  when  she  was  four." 

"It  is,"  said  John. 

"Only  if  you  had  begun  with  her  at  four,  you 
would  n't  be  wanting  to  adopt  her  now,"  said  Miss 
Lindon,  with  an  illuminating  flash  of  logic. 

"Quite  so,"  replied  John. 

There  was  a  span  of  silence.     John  mechanically 


74  STELLA    MARIS 

drew  his  pipe  from  his  pocket,  eyed  it  with  longing, 
and  replaced  it.  Miss  Lindon  took  the  aged  black-and- 
tan  terrier  in  her  arms  and  whispered  to  it  in  baby 
language.  She  was  a  million  leagues  from  divining 
the  object  of  her  nephew's  visit.  John  looked  at  her 
despairingly.  Had  she  not  a  single  grain  of  common 
sense?  At  last  he  strode  across  the  room,  a  Gulli- 
ver in  a  new  Lilliput,  and  sat  down  again  by  her 
side. 

"Look  here,  Aunt  Gladys,"  he  said  desperately,  "if 
I  adopt  a  young  woman  of  sixteen,  I  must  have  another 
woman  in  the  house — a  lady,  one  of  my  own  family. 
I  could  n't  have  people  saying  horrid  things  about 
her  and  me." 

Miss  Lindon  assented  to  the  proposition.  John  was 
far  too  young  and  good-looking  ("Oh,  Lord!"  cried 
John) — yes,  he  was — to  pose  as  the  father  of  a  pretty, 
grown-up  young  woman. 

"The  poor  child  is  n't  pretty,"  said  he. 

"It  does  n't  matter,"  replied  Miss  Lindon.  "Beauty 
is  only  skin  deep,  and  I  've  known  plain  people  who 
are  quite  fascinating.  There  was  Captain  Brown- 
low's  wife — do  you  remember  the  Brownlows?  Your 
poor  mother  was  so  fond  of  them — " 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  John,  impatiently.  "He  had  wet 
hands,  and  used  to  mess  my  face  about  when  I  was  a 
kid.  I  hated  it.  The  question  is,  however,  whom  am 
I  going  to  get  to  help  me  with  Unity  Blake?" 

"Ah,  yes,  to  be  sure.  Poor  little  Unity !  You  must 
bring  her  to  see  me  sometimes.  Give  me  notice,  and 
I  '11  make  her  some  of  my  cream-puffs.  Children  are 
always  so  fond  of  them.  You  ought  to  remember  my 
cream-puffs." 

"Good  heavens!"  he  cried,  with  a  gesture  that  set 
the  dog  barking.  "There  's  no  question  of  cream- 
puffs.  Can't  you  see  what  I  'm  driving  at?  I  want 


STELLA    MARIS  75 

you  to  come  and  keep  house  for  me  and  help  me  to 
look  after  the  child." 

He  rose,  and  his  great  form  towered  so  threaten- 
ingly over  her  that  Dandy  barked  at  him  with  a  toy 
terrier's  furious  and  impotent  rage. 

"I  come  and  live  with  you?"  gasped  Miss  Lindon. 

"Yes,"  said  John,  turning  away  and  lumbering  back 
to  the  fireplace.  The  dog,  perceiving  that  he  had  struck 
terror  into  the  heart  of  his  enemy,  dismissed  him  with 
a  scornful  snarl,  and  curled  himself  up  by  the  side  of 
his  stupefied  mistress. 

It  was  done ;  the  proposal  had  been  made,  according 
to  the  demands  of  his  pig-headedness.  Now  that  he 
had  made  it,  he  realized  its  insanity.  He  contrasted 
this  home  of  flim-flammeries  and  its  lap-dogs  and  ca- 
naries and  old-maidish  futilities  with  his  own  tobacco- 
saturated  and  paper-littered  den;  this  life  of  triviali- 
ties with  his  own  fighting  career;  this  incapacity  to 
grasp  essentials  with  his  own  realization  of  the  con- 
flict of  world-forces.  The  ludicrous  incongruity  of 
a  partnership  between  the  two  of  them  in  so  fateful 
a  business  as  the  healing  of  a  human  soul  appealed 
to  his  somewhat  dull  sense  of  humour.  The  whole  idea 
was  preposterous.  In  his  saturnine  way  he  laughed. 

"It's  rather  a  mad  notion,  is  n't  it?" 

"I  don't  think  so  at  all,"  replied  Miss  Lindon  in  a 
most  disconcertingly  matter-of-fact  tone.  "The  only 
thing  is  that  since  poor  papa  died  I  've  had  so  little  to 
do  with  gentlemen,  and  have  forgotten  their  ways. 
You  see,  dear,  you  have  put  me  quite  in  a  flutter. 
How  do  I  know,  for  instance,  what  you  would  like 
to  have  for  breakfast?  Your  dear  grandpapa  used 
to  have  only  one  egg  boiled  for  two  minutes — he  was 
most  particular — and  a  piece  of  dry  toast;  whereas 
I  well  remember  Mrs.  Brownlow  telling  me  that  her 
husband  used  to  eat  a  hearty  meal  of  porridge  and 


76  STELLA   MARIS 

eggs  and  bacon,  with  an  underdone  beefsteak  to  fol- 
low. So  you  see,  dear,  I  have  no  rule  which  I  could 
follow ;  you  would  have  to  tell  me." 

"That  's  quite  a  detail,"  said  John,  rather  touched 
by  her  unselfish,  if  tangential,  dealing  with  the  pro- 
posal. "The  main  point  is,"  said  he,  moving  a  step 
or  two  forward,  "would  you  care  to  come  and  play 
propriety  for  me  and  this  daughter  of  misery  ?" 

"Do  you  really  want  me  to?" 

"Naturally,  since  I  Ve  asked  you." 

She  rose  and  came  up  to  him.  "My  dear  boy,"  she 
said  with  wet  eyes,  "I  know  I  'm  not  a  clever  woman, 
and  often  when  clever  people  like  you  talk,  I  don't 
in  the  least  understand  what  they  're  talking  about; 
but  I  did  love  your  dear  mother  with  all  my  heart, 
and  I  would  do  anything  in  the  wide  world  for  her 
son." 

John  took  her  hand  and  looked  down  into  her  fool- 
ish, kind  face,  which  wore  for  the  moment  the  dignity 
of  love.  "I  'm  afraid  it. will  mean  an  uprooting  of  all 
your  habits,"  said  he,  in  a  softened  voice. 

She  smiled.  "I  can  bring  them  with  me,"  she  said 
cheerfully.  "You  won't  mind  Dandy,  will  you  ?  He'll 
soon  get  used  to  you.  And  as  for  Dickie,"  she  added, 
with  a  touch  of  wistfulness,  "I  'm  sure  I  can  find  a 
nice  home  for  him." 

John  put  his  arm  round  her  shoulder  and  gave  her 
the  kiss  of  a  shy  bear. 

"My  good  soul,"  he  cried,  "bring  fifty  million  Dick- 
ies if  you  like."  He  laughed.  "There  's  nothing  like 
the  song  of  birds  for  the  humanizing  of  the  cockney 
child." 

He  looked  around  and  beheld  the  little,  gimcrack 
room  with  a  new  vision.  After  all,  it  was  as  much  an 
expression  of  her  individuality,  and  as  genuine  in  the 
eyes  of  the  high  gods,  as  Herold's  exquisitely  fur- 


'  I  COME  AND   LIVE   WITH   YOU  ?"   GASPED   MISS   LINDON 


STELLA    MARIS  77 

nished  abode  was  of  Harold's,  or  the  untidy  jumble 
of  the  room  in  Fenton  Square  was  of  his  own.  And 
all  she  had  to  live  upon  was  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
a  year,  and  no  artistic  instincts  or  antecedents  what- 
soever. 

"I  feel  a  brute  in  asking-  you  to  give  up  this  little 
place  now  that  you  've  made  it  so  pretty,"  he  said. 

Her  face  brightened  at  the  praise.  "It  is  pretty, 
is  n't  it?"  Then  she  sighed  as  her  eyes  rested  fondly 
on  her  possessions.  "I  suppose  it  would  be  too  tiny 
for  us  all  to  live  here." 

"I  'm  afraid  it  would,"  said  John.  "Besides,  we 
must  live  in  London,  on  account  of  my  work." 

"In  London?" 

Miss  Linden's  heart  sank.  She  had  lived  in  sub- 
urbs all  her  life,  and  found  Croydon — the  Lord  knows 
why — the  most  delectable  of  them  all.  She  had  sat 
under  Mr.  Moneyfeather  of  Saint  Michael's  for  many 
years — such  a  dear,  good  man  who  preached  such  elo- 
quent sermons!  You  could  always  understand  him, 
too,  which  was  a  great  comfort.  And  the  church  was 
just  round  the  corner.  In  London  folks  had  to  go  to 
church  by  omnibus,  a  most  unpleasant  and  possibly 
irreverent  prelude  to  divine  worship.  Besides,  when 
you  did  get  to  the  sacred  edifice,  you  found  yourself 
in  a  confusing  land  where  all  the  clergy,  even  to  the 
humblest  deacon,  were  austere  and  remote  strangers, 
who  looked  at  members  of  their  congregation  with 
glassy  and  unsympathetic  eyes  when  they  passed  them 
in  the  street.  Here,  in  Croydon,  on  the  contrary,  when 
she  met  Mr.  Moneyfeather  in  public  places,  he  held 
her  hand  and  patted  it  and  inquired  affectionately  after 
Dandy's  health.  With  a  London  vicar  she  could  not 
conceive  the  possibility  of  such  privileged  terms  of  in- 
timacy. London,  where  you  did  not  know  your  next- 
door  neighbor,  and  where  you  took  no  interest  in  the 


78  STELLA   MARIS 

births  of  babies  over  the  way;  where  no  one  ran  in 
for  a  gossip  in  the  mornings;  where  every  street  was 
a  clashing,  dashing  High  Street. 

But  though  her  face  pictured  her  dismay,  she  was 
too  generous  to  translate  it  into  words.  John  never 
guessed  her  sacrifice. 

"We  '11  go  somewhere  quiet,"  said  he,  after  a  while. 

"We  '11  go  wherever  you  like,  dear,"  replied  Miss 
Lindon,  meekly,  and  she  rang  the  bell  for  tea. 

The  main  point  decided,  they  proceeded  to  discuss 
the  details  of  the  scheme,  the  minds  of  each  suffused 
in  a  misty  wonder.  If  John  had  told  the  simple  lady 
that  she  could  serve  him  by  taking  command  of  a  cav- 
alry regiment,  she  would  have  agreed  in  her  unselfish 
fashion,  but  she  would  have  been  not  a  whit  more  per- 
plexed at  the  prospect.  As  for  John  he  had  the  sen- 
sation of  living  in  a  fantastic  dream.  A  child  of  six 
would  have  been  a  more  practical  ally.  In  the  course 
of  befogged  conversation,  however,  it  was  arranged 
that  Miss  Lindon  should  transfer  to  the  new  house 
her  worldly  belongings,  of  which  she  was  to  give  him 
an  inventory,  including  Dandy  and  Dickie  and  her 
maid  Phoebe,  a  most  respectable  girl  of  Baptist  up- 
bringing, who  had  been  cruelly  jilted  by  a  prosperous 
undertaker  in  the  neighborhood,  whom,  if  you  had 
seen  him  conducting  a  funeral,  you  would  have 
thought  as  serious  and  God-fearing  a  man  as  the  cler- 
gyman himself;  which  showed  how  hypocritical  men 
could  be,  and  how  you  ought  never  to  trust  to  ap- 
pearances. It  was  also  settled  that,  as  soon  as  Unity 
could  be  rescued  from  the  guardianship  of  the  orphan- 
age authorities  and  comfortably  installed  in  a  conva- 
lescent home  by  the  seaside,  Miss  Lindon  would  jour- 
ney thither  in  order  to  make  her  ward's  acquaintance. 
In  the  meanwhile  John  would  go  house-hunting. 

"Walter  Herold  will  help  me,"  said  John. 


STELLA    MARTS  79 

"That's  your  friend  who  acts,  is  n't  it?"  said  Miss 
Lindon.  "I  have  n't  any  objection  to  theatres  myself. 
In  fact,  I  often  used  to  go  to  see  Irving  when  I  was 
young.  You  meet  quite  a  nice  class  of  people  in  the 
dress-circle.  But  I  don't  think  ladies  ought  to  go  on 
the  stage.  I  hope  Mr.  Herold  won't  put  such  an  idea 
into  Unity's  head." 

"I  don't  think  he  will,"  said  John. 

"Young  girls  are  sometimes  so  flighty.  My  old 
friend  Mrs.  Willcox  had  a  daughter  who  went  on  the 
stage,  and  she  married  an  actor,  and  now  has  twelve 
children,  and  lives  in  Cheshire.  I  was  hearing  about 
her  only  the  other  day.  I  suppose  Unity  will  have 
to  be  taught  music  and  drawing  and  French  like  any 
other  young  lady." 

"We  might  begin,"  replied  John,  "with  more  ele- 
mentary accomplishments." 

"I  could  teach  her  botany,"  said  Miss  Lindon,  pen- 
sively. "I  got  first  prize  for  it  at  school.  I  still  have 
the  book  in  a  cupboard,  and  I  could  read  it  up.  And 
I  'm  so  glad  I  have  kept  my  two  volumes  of  pressed 
flowers.  It  's  quite  easy  to  learn,  I  assure  you." 

"I  'm  afraid,  my  dear,"  said  John,  "you  '11  first  have 
to  teach  her  to  eat  and  drink  like  a  Christian,  and  blow 
her  nose,  and  keep  her  face  clean." 

"Ah,  that  reminds  me.  My  head  's  in  a  maze,  and 
I  can't  think  of  everything  at  once,  like  some  clever 
people.  What  kind  of  soap  do  gentlemen  use?  I  '11 
have  to  know,  so  as  to  supply  you  with  what  you  like." 

"Any  old  stuff  that  will  make  a  lather,"  said  John, 
rising. 

"But  some  soaps  are  so  bad  for  the  skin,"  she  ob- 
jected anxiously. 

"Vitriol  would  n't  hurt  my  rhinoceros  hide." 

He  laughed,  and  held  out  his  hand.  Further  dis- 
cussion was  useless. 


8o  STELLA    MARIS 

Miss  Lindon  accompanied  him  to  the  front  gate 
and  watched  him  stride  down  the  perky  terrace  until 
he  disappeared  round  the  corner.  Then  she  went 
slowly  into  the  house  and  uncovered  the  canary,  who 
blinked  at  her  in  oblique  sullenness,  and  did  not  re- 
spond to  her  friendly  "cheep"  and  the  scratching  of 
her  finger  against  the  rails  of  his  cage.  She  turned 
to  Dandy,  who,  snoring  loud,  was  equally  unrespon- 
sive. Feeling  lonely  and  upset,  she  rang  the  bell. 

"Phoebe,"  she  said,  when  the  angular  and  jilted 
maid  appeared,  "we  are  going  to  keep  house  for  my 
nephew,  Mr.  Risca,  and  a  young  lady  whom  he  has 
adopted.  Will  you  tell  me  one  thing?  Is  the  lady  of 
the  house  supposed  to  clean  the  gentlemen's  pipes?" 

"My  father  is  a  non-smoker,  as  well  as  a  teetotaler, 
miss,"  replied  Phoebe. 

"Dear  me !"  murmured  Miss  Lindon.  "It  's  going 
to  be  a  great  puzzle." 


CHAPTER  VII 

IT  was  a  puzzle  to  John  as  much  as  to  the  palpitat- 
ing lady,  and  in  the  maze  of  his  puzzledom  the 
gleam  of  humour  that  visited  him  during  their 
interview  lost  its  way.  Walter  Herold's  eyes,  how- 
ever, twinkled  maliciously  when  he  heard  John's  ac- 
count at  once  rueful  and  pig-headed.  Then  he  grew 
serious. 

"It  will  be  comic  opera  all  the  time.  It  can't  be 
done." 

"It  's  going  to  be  done,"  said  John,  obstinately. 
"There  's  nothing  else  to  do.  If  I  were  a  rich  man,  I 
could  work  wonders  with  a  scratch  in  my  cheque-book. 
I  could  hire  an  unexceptionable  colonel's  or  clergy- 
man's widow  to  do  the  business.  But  I'm  not.  How 
I  'm  going  to  get  the  house  together,  as  it  is,  I  don't 
know.  Besides,"  he  added,  turning  with  some  sav- 
ageness  on  his  friend,  "if  you  think  it  a  comic-opera 
idea,  kindly  remember  it  was  you  who  started  it." 

Though  Herold  was  silenced  for  the  moment,  to  the 
back  of  his  mind  still  clung  the  first  suggestion  he  had 
made.  It  was  the  common-sense  idea  that,  given  a 
knowledge  of  John's  relations  with  the  Southcliff 
household,  would  have  occurred  to  anybody.  John  had 
it  in  his  power  to  befriend  the  unhappy  child  without 
trying  the  rash  experiment  of  raising  her  social  status. 
Wherein  lay  the  advantage  of  bringing  her  up  as  a 
lady  ?  A  pampered  maid  in  a  luxurious  home  does  not 
drag  out  the  existence  of  a  downtrodden  slave.  Such 

81 


82  STELLA    MARIS 

have  been  known  to  smile  and  sing,  even  to  bless  their 
stars,  and  finally  to  marry  a  prince  in  grocer's  disguise, 
and  to  live  happy  ever  afterwards.  With  John's  de- 
scription of  the  girl's  dog-like  eyes  in  his  memory, 
Herold  pictured  her  as  a  devoted  handmaiden  to  Stel- 
lamaris,  a  romantic,  mediaeval  appanage  of  the  sea- 
chamber.  What  more  amazingly  exquisite  destiny 
could  await  not  only  one  bred  in  the  gutter,  but  any 
damsel  far  more  highly  born?  Her  silence  as  to  the 
past  could  be  insured  under  ghastly  penalties  which 
would  have  no  need  of  imagination  for  their  appeal. 
That  of  course  would  be  an  ultimate  measure.  He  felt 
certain  that  a  couple  of  months'  probation  in  the  at- 
mosphere of  the  Channel  House  would  compel  any 
human  being  not  a  devil  incarnate  to  unthinking  obe- 
dience to  the  Unwritten  Law.  By  following  this 
scheme,  Unity  would  achieve  salvation,  Stellamaris 
acquire  a  new  interest  in  life,  and  John  himself  be 
saved  not  only  from  financial  worries,  but  from  gro- 
tesquely figuring  in  comic  opera.  As  for  Miss  Lindon, 
he  felt  certain  that  she  would  fall  down  on  her  knees 
and  offer  up  thanksgivings  to  the  God  of  her  grand- 
mothers. 

But  of  this  scheme  John  would  hear  no  word.  He 
bellowed  his  disapproval  like  an  angry  bull,  rushed 
out,  as  it  were,  with  lowered  head,  into  the  thick  of 
house-agents,  and  before  Herold  could  catch  him  in 
a  milder  humour  he  had  signed  the  lease  of  a  little 
house  in  Kilburn,  overlooking  the  Paddington  Recrea- 
tion Ground.  By  the  time  it  was  put  in  order  and 
decorated,  he  declared,  Unity  would  be  in  a  fit  condi- 
tion to  take  up  her  abode  there  with  Miss  Lindon  and 
himself. 

"Where  is  this  convalescent  home  you  're  going  to 
send  her  to?"  asked  Herold. 

John  did  not  know.     A  man  could  not  attend  to 


STELLA   MARIS  83 

everything  at  once.  But  there  were  thousands.  He 
would  find  one.  Then,  it  being  the  end  of  the 
week,  he  went  down  to  the  Channel  House,  where, 
by  the  midnight  train  on  Saturday,  Herold  joined 
him. 

It  was  Herold  who  laid  John's  rash  project  before 
Sir  Oliver  and  Lady  Blount. 

"Why  in  the  world,"  cried  the  latter,  checking  the 
hospitable  flow  of  tea  from  the  teapot  and  poising  it 
in  mid  air — they  were  at  breakfast — "why  in  the  world 
does  n't  he  send  the  child  to  us?" 

John,  in  desperation,  went  over  his  arguments.  The 
discussion  grew  heated.  Sir  Oliver,  with  a  twirl  of 
his  white  moustache,  gave  him  to  understand  that  to 
take  folks  out  of  the  station  to  which  it  had  pleased 
God  to  call  them  was  an  act  of  impiety  to  which  he, 
Sir  Oliver,  would  not  be  a  party.  His  wife,  irritated 
by  her  husband's  dictatorial  manner,  demurred  to  the 
proposition.  John  had  every  right  to  do  as  he  liked. 
If  you  adopted  a  child,  you  brought  it  up  as  a  matter 
of  course  in  your  own  rank  in  life.  Why  adopt  it? 
Why  not  ?  They  bickered  as  usual.  At  last  John  got 
up  in  a  fume  and  went  to  cool  his  head  in  the  garden. 
It  was  outrageous  that  he  should  never  be  allowed  to 
mismanage  his  own  affairs.  There  was  the  same  quar- 
reling interference  when  he  proposed  to  go  to  Aus- 
tralia. He  lit  his  pipe  and  puffed  at  it  furiously.  After 
a  while  Lady  Blount  joined  him.  She  declared  her- 
self to  be  on  his  side ;  but,  as  in  most  sublunary  things, 
there  was  a  compromise. 

"At  any  rate,  my  dear  John,  give  your  friends  a 
little  chance  of  helping  you,"  she  said.  "If  you  set 
your  face  against  Walter's  plan,  at  least  you  can  send 
the  child  down  here  to  recuperate.  Nurse  Holroyd 
will  keep  a  trained  eye  on  her,  and  she  can  play  about 
the  garden  and  on  the  beach  as  much  as  she  likes.  I 


84  STELLA    MARIS 

do  understand  what  you  're  afraid  of  with  regard  to 
Stella—" 

"Oliver  and  Walter  are  wooden-headed  dolts,"  cried 
John. 

She  smiled  wifely  agreement.  "There  need  be  no 
danger,  I  assure  you.  We  can  give  the  child  a  room 
in  the  other  wing,  and  forbid  her  the  use  of  Stella's 
side  of  the  house.  Stella's  room  will  be  guarded.  You 
may  trust  me.  Have  I  ever  failed  yet?  And  Stella 
need  never  know  of  her  presence  in  the  place.  After 
all,"  she  continued,  touching  his  coat-sleeve,  "I 
think  I  am  a  bit  nearer  to  your  life  than  your  Aunt 
Gladys." 

John  laughed  at  the  flash  of  jealousy. 

"If  you  put  it  that  way,  it  's  very  hard  to  refuse." 

"Then  you '11  send  her?" 

He  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe  against  the 
heel  of  his  boot,  thus  hiding  the  annoyance  on  his  face, 
but  he  yielded.  "For  her  convalescence  only." 

The  touch  on  his  arm  deepened  into  a  squeeze. 

"If  you  had  said  no,  I  should  have  been  so  hurt, 
dear." ' 

"I  only  want  to  do  what  's  decently  right,"  said  he. 

"I  think  you  're  acting  nobly,"  she  said. 

"My  dear  Julia,"  said  he,  "I  'm  not  going  to  listen 
to  infatuated  rubbish." 

He  cast  off  her  hand  somewhat  roughly,  but  con- 
tinued to  walk  with  her  up  and  down  the  terrace,  talk- 
ing intimately  of  his  plans  concerning  the  adopted 
child  and  the  psychological  problem  she  presented.  No 
man,  in  his  vain  heart  of  hearts,  really  resents  a 
woman  calling  him  a  noble  fellow,  be  she  ten  years 
old  or  his  great-great-grandmother.  They  parted  soon 
afterward,  Lady  Blount  to  prepare  herself  for  church, 
which  Sir  Oliver  and  she  attended  with  official  regu- 
larity, and  John  to  worship  in  his  own  way — one 


STELLA   MARIS  85 

equally  acceptable,  I  should  imagine,  to  the  Almighty 
— in  the  sea-chamber  of  Stellamaris. 

He  found  Herold  there,  in  the  midst  of  a  dramatic 
entertainment,  with  Stellamaris  and  Constable  for  au- 
dience. How  familiar  and  unchanging  was  the  scene ! 
The  great,  bright  room,  the  wood  fire  blazing  merrily 
up  the  chimney,  the  huge  dog  lifting  his  eyes  and  stir- 
ring his  tail  in  welcome,  and  against  the  background 
of  sea  and  sky  the  fairy  head  on  its  low  pillow.  Stella 
smiled,  put  a  finger  to  her  lips,  and  pointed  to  a  chair. 

"Go  on,"  she  said  to  Herold. 

"We  're  in  the  middle  of  the  first  act,  just  before 
my  exit,"  said  the  latter. 

John  became  aware,  as  he  listened,  that  Herold  was 
sketching  the  piece  in  which  he  was  playing,  a  fra- 
grant comedy  full  of  delicate  sentiment  and  humour. 
His  own  scenes  he  acted  in  full,  taking  all  the  parts. 
Stella  lay  entranced,  and  fixed  on  him  glorious  eyes 
of  wonder.  How  could  he  do  it  ?  At  one  astonishing 
moment  he  was .  a  young  girl,  at  another  her  sailor 
sweetheart,  at  another  a  palsied,  mumbling  old  man. 
And  when,  as  the  old  man,  he  took  the  weeping  girl 
under  his  arm  and  hobbled  away  on  his  stick,  leaving 
the  young  fellow  baffled  and  disappointed,,  it  seemed 
an  optical  illusion,  so  vivid  was  the  picture.  He  re- 
crossed  the  room,  smiling,  the  real  Walter  Herold 
again;  Stella  clapped  her  hands. 

"Is  n't  he  perfectly  lovely!" 

"Stunning,"  said  John,  who  had  often  witnessed 
similar  histrionic  exhibitions  in  that  room,  and  had  al- 
ways been  impressed  with  their  exquisite  art.  "I  wish 
you  could  see  the  real  thing,  dear." 

Stella  glanced  out  to  sea  for  a  moment  and  glanced 
back  at  him. 

"I  don't  think  I  do,"  she  said.  "It  would  be  too 
real.'* 


86  STELLA    MARIS 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?" 

Herold  clapped  John  on  the  shoulder.  "Can't  you 
see  what  a  subtle  little  artistic  soul  she  has  ?"  he  cried 
enthusiastically.  "She  has  evolved  for  herself  the  fun- 
damental truth,  the  vital  essence  of  all  art — suggestion. 
She  means  that,  in  order  that  the  proper  harmony 
should  be  established  between  the  artist  and  the  per- 
son to  whom  he  is  making  his  appeal,  the  latter  must 
go  a  certain  way  to  meet  him.  He  must  exercise  his 
imagination,  too,  on  the  same  lines.  The  measure  of 
your  appreciation,  say,  of  Turner,  is  the  length  of  the 
imaginative  journey  you  make  toward  him.  When  a 
thing  needs  no  imaginative  effort  to  get  hold  of  it, 
it  's  not  a  work  of  art.  You  have  n't  got  to  go  half 
way  to  the  housemaid  to  realize  a  slice  of  bread  and 
butter.  That 's  where  so-called  realism  fails.  Stella  's 
afraid  that  if  she  saw  us  all  in  flesh  and  blood  on  the 
stage,  nothing  would  be  left  to  her  imagination.  She  's 
right  in  essence." 

Stella  smiled  on  him  gratefully.  ."That  's  exactly 
how  I  feel,  but  I  could  n't  have  expressed  it.  How 
do  you  manage  to  know  all  these  funny  things  that 
go  on  inside  me?" 

"I  wish  I  did,"  said  Herold,  with  a  touch  of  wist- 
fulness. 

"But  you  do."  She  turned  to  John.  "Does  n't  he, 
Belovedest?" 

Herold  glanced  at  the  clock.  "I  must  run.  I  prom- 
ised Sir  Oliver  to  go  to  church.  We  '11  have  the 
rest  of  the  play  this  afternoon." 

"Why  don't  you  go  to  church,  too?"  Stella  asked 
when  Herold  had  gone. 

"I  'm  not  so  good  as  Walter,"  he  replied. 

"You  are,"  she  cried  warmly. 

He  shook  his  head.  He  knew  that  Herold's  church- 
going  was  not  an  act  of  great  spiritual  devotion ;  for 


STELLA   MARIS  87 

the  Southcliff  service  was  dull,  and  the  vicar,  good, 
limited  man,  immeasurably  duller.  It  was  an  act  of 
characteristic  unselfishness :  he  went  so  as  to  be  a  buf- 
fer between  Sir  Oliver  and  his  wife,  who  invariably 
quarreled  during  their  sedate,  official  walk  to  and  from 
morning  service,  and  on  this  particular  occasion,  with 
fresh  contentious  matter  imported  from  the  outside, 
were  likely  to  hold  discourse  with  each  other  more 
than  usually  a'crimonious. 

"Walter  's  a  sort  of  saint,"  said  he,  "who  can  hear 
the  music  of  the  spheres.  I  can't.  I  just  jog  along 
the  ground  and  listen  to  barrel-organs." 

They  argued  the  point  for  a  while,  then  drifted 
back  to  Herold's  acting,  thence  to  the  story  of  the 
play. 

"I  wonder  what  's  going  to  happen,"  said  Stella- 
mans.  "If  Dorothy  does  n't  marry  her  sailor,  I  shall 
never  get  over  it." 

John  laughed.  "Suppose  the  sailor  turns  out  to  be 
a  dark,  double-dyed,  awful  villain?" 

"Oh,  he  can't;  he  's  young  and  beautiful." 

"Don't  you  believe  that  beautiful  people  can  be  vil- 
lains?" 

"No,"  said  Stella;  "it  's  silly."  She  looked  for  a 
while  out  to  her  familiar  sea,  the  source  of  all  her  in- 
spiration, and  her  brows  were  delicately  knitted.  "I 
may  as  well  tell  you,"  she  said  at  last  with  great  solem- 
nity, "a  conclusion  I  've  come  to  after  lots  of  thought 
— yes,  dear  Belovedest,  I  lie  here  and  think  lots  and 
lots — I  don't  believe  the  Bible  is  true." 

"My  dear  Stella!"  he  cried,  scandalized.  He  himself 
did  not  believe  in  the  Jonah  and  whale  story  or  in 
many  other  things  contained  in  Holy  Writ,  and  did 
not  go  to  church,  and  was  sceptical  as  to  existence  of 
anthropomorphous  angels;  but  he  held  the  truly  Bri- 
tish conviction  of  the  necessity  of  faith  in  the  young 


88  STELLA   MARIS 

and  innocent.  Stella  having  been  bred  in  the  unques- 
tioning calm  of  Anglican  orthodoxy,  her  atheistical 
pronouncement  was  staggering.  "My  dear  Stella!" 
he  cried.  "The  Bible  not  true  ?" 

She  flushed.  "Oh,  I  believe  it 's  all  true  as  far  as  it 
goes,"  she  exclaimed  quickly.  "But  it  's  not  true 
about  people  to-day.  All  those  dreadful  things  that 
are  told  in  it — the  cruelty  of  Joseph's  brethren,  for  in- 
stance— did  happen;  but  they  happened  so  long,  long 
ago.  People  have  had  lots  and  lots  of  time  to  grow 
better.  Have  n't  they?" 

"They  certainly  have,  my  dear,"  said  John. 

"And  then  Christ  came  to  wash  away  everybody's 
sins." 

"He  did,"  said  John. 

"So  it  seems  to  me  we  can  disregard  a  great  deal  of 
religion.  It  does  n't  affect  us.  We  are  n't  good  like 
the  angels,  I  know,"  she  remarked  with  the  seriousness 
of  a  young  disputant  in  the  school  of  Duns  Scotus; 
"but  men  don't  kill  each  other,  or  rob  each  other,  or 
be  cruel  to  the  weak,  and  nobody  tells  horrible  lies,  do 
they?" 

"I  think  we  Ve  improved  during  the  last  few  thou- 
sand years,"  said  John. 

"So,"  said  Stellamaris,  continuing  her  argument,  "as 
the  fathers  have  no  particular  sins,  they  can't  be  visited 
much  on  the  children.  And  if  there  are  no  wicked 
people  to  go  to  hell,  hell  must  be  empty,  and  therefore 
useless.  So  it  's  no  good  believing  in  it." 

"Not  the  slightest  good  in  the  world,"  said  John, 
fervently. 

"And  now  that  everybody  loves  God,"  she  went  on, 
"I  don't  see  what  's  the  good  of  religion.  I  love  you, 
Great  High  Belovedest,  but  there  's  no  need  for  me  to 
get  a  form  of  words  to  say  1  love  you/  'I  love  you/ 
all  day  long.  One's  heart  says  it." 


STELLA    MARIS  89 

"What  's  your  idea  of  God,  Stella  dear?"  he  asked 
in  a  curiously  husky  voice. 

She  beckoned  to  him.  He  drew  his  chair  nearer  and 
bent  toward  her.  She  waved  her  fragile  arms  bare  to 
the  elbow. 

"I  think  we  breathe  God,"  she  said. 

JOHN  RISCA  went  back  to  Fenton  Square  and 
breathed  the  ghosts  of  the  night-before-last's  sprats, 
and  he  journeyed  to  the  Orphanage  of  Saint  Martha 
at  Willesden  and  breathed  the  prison  taint  of  that 
abode  of  hopelessness,  and  he  wrote  hard  at  night  in  a 
tiny  room  breathing  the  hot,  electric  atmosphere  of  a 
newspaper-office;  and  ever  horribly  dominant  in  his 
mind  was  the  woman  whom  once  he  had  held  in  his 
arms,  who  now  performed  degrading  tasks  in  shameful 
outward  investiture,  and  inwardly  lashed  at  him  with 
malignant  hatred  through  the  distorted  prism  of  her 
soul,  and  he  breathed  the  clammy  dungeon  atmosphere 
of  his  own  despair;  and  sitting  at  his  writing-table 
one  night,  after  having  spent  the  day  in  court  listening 
to  the  loathsome  details  of  a  sickening  murder,  a  crime 
passionnel,  with  the  shock  of  which  the  wide  world 
was  ringing, — his  American  syndicate  insisted  on  a 
vivid  story,  and  he  had  to  earn  the  journalist's  daily 
bread, — the  ignorant,  fanciful  words  of  Stellamaris 
flashed  through  his  mind — "I  think  we  breathe  God." 
He  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  aloud,  and  then 
let  it  drop  upon  his  arms,  folded  over  his  wet  page  of 
copy,  and  sobbed  in  a  man's  dry-eyed  agony  of  spirit. 

And  as  the  prophet  Elijah,  when  sore  beset,  found 
the  Lord  neither  in  the  wind  nor  in  the  earthquake  nor 
in  the  fire,  so  did  John  Risca  find  Him  not  in  all  these 
daily  things  through  which  he  had  passed.  Life  was 
fierce,  inhuman,  a  devastating  medley  of  blind  forces, 
making  human  effort  a  vain  thing,  human  aspiration  a 


90  STELLA   MARIS 

derision,  faith  in  mankind  a  grotesque  savage  Ju-ju 
superstition.  There  was  no  God,  no  beneficent  influ- 
ence making  order  out  of  chaos;  for  it  was  all  chaos. 
Jezebel  and  her  lusts  and  cruelties  ruled  the  world — 
this  cloaca  of  a  world.  Man  argues  ever  from  par- 
ticular to  general,  instinctively  flying  to  the  illogic  on 
which  the  acceptance  of  human  life  is  based.  To 
Risca,  at  nine  and  twenty,  his  pain  translated  itself  into 
terms  of  the  world-pain;  and  so  will  it  happen  to  all 
generations  of  all  the  sons  and  daughters  of  men. 

After  a  while,  as  he  sat  there  motionless,  he  grew 
aware  of  something  delicately  soft  touching  his  ear 
and  hair.  For  a  moment  he  had  the  absurd  fancy  that 
Stellamaris  stood  beside  him  with  caressing  fingers. 
It  became  so  insistent  that  he  dallied  with  it,  persuaded 
himself  that  she  was  there;  he  would  have  only  to 
turn  to  see  her  in  her  childish  grace.  He  heard  a 
sound  as  of  murmured  speech.  She  seemed  to  whisper 
of  quiet,  far-off  things.  And  then  he  seemed  to  hear 
the  words :  "The  door  is  open.  Go  out  into  the  wide 
spaces  under  heaven."  He  roused  himself  with  a 
start,  and,  looking  about  him,  perceived  that  the  door 
of  his  sitting-room  was  indeed  ajar,  the  ill-fitting  old 
lock  having  slipped,  thus  causing  a  draught,  which 
poured  over  his  head  and  shoulders.  He  rose  and 
clapped  on  his  hat  and  went  down-stairs.  A  ten-min- 
utes' trudge  on  the  pavements  would  clear  his  head  for 
the  work  that  had  to  be  accomplished.  But  on  his 
doorstep  he  halted.  Away  above  the  housetops  on  the 
other  side  of  the  dingy  square  sailed  the  full  moon, 
casting  a  wake  of  splendour  along  the  edge  of  a  rack 
of  cloud.  And  below  it  swam  a  single  star. 

He  caught  himself  repeating  stupidly,  "Stella  Maris, 
Star  of  the  Sea."  With  an  impatient  shake  of  the 
shoulders  he  went  his  way  through  the  narrow  streets 
and  emerged  upon  the  broad  and  quiet  thoroughfares 


STELLA   MARIS  91 

about  the  Abbey  and  the  Houses  of  Parliament.  On 
Westminster  Bridge  the  startling  silver  of  the  moon- 
lit river  brought  him  to  a  stand.  The  same  glory  was 
overspreading  the  mild  sea  below  the  windows  of  the 
Channel  House.  Perhaps  Stella  even  then  lay  awake, 
as  she  often  did  of  nights,  and  was  watching  it  and 
was  "breathing  God."  A  great  longing  arose  within 
him  to  stand  on  the  beach  beneath  her  window  in  the 
wide  spaces  under  heaven.  So  he  walked  on,  thinking 
vaguely  of  Stellamaris  and  her  ways  and  mysteries, 
and  reached  his  home  again  in  a  chastened  mood. 
Like  Elijah,  he  had  found  God  neither  in  the  wind  nor 
in  the  earthquake  nor  in  the  fire;  but  who  can  tell 
whether  he  had  not  been  brought  into  touch  with  some- 
thing of  the  divine  by  the  still,  small  voice  that  came 
through  the  draught  of  the  crazy  door  ? 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THINGS  happened  as  John  and  Lady  Blount  had 
planned  them.  Sister  Theophila,  having  satis- 
fied herself  that  Unity  Blake  was  not  a  second 
time  being  thrown  to  the  wolves — Lady  Blount  herself 
undertook  the  negotiations — surrendered  her  without 
many  regretful  pangs.  Unity  Blake,  fatalistic  child 
of  circumstance,  surrendered  herself  without  coherent 
thought.  World  authorities,  vague  in  their  nature,  but 
irresistibly  compelling  in  their  force,  had  governed  her 
life  from  her  earliest  years.  The  possibility  of  revolt, 
of  assertion  of  her  own  individuality,  was  undreamed 
of  in  her  narrow  philosophy.  She  had  the  outlook  on 
life  of  the  slave;  not  the  slave  of  the  mettlesome  tem- 
perament depicted  by  the  late  Mrs.  Harriet  Beecher 
Stowe  and  the  late  Mr.  Longfellow,  but  the  unaspiring 
deaf-mute  of  a  barbaric  harem.  It  is  true  that  Lady 
Blount  asked  her  whether  she  would  like  to  go  away 
to  a  nice  house  by  the  seaside,  and  afterward  live  for 
ever  and  ever  with  the  kind  gentleman  who  gave  her 
peppermint  bull's-eyes  and  the  kind  lady  who  had  vis- 
ited her  one  day,  bringing  her  a  pair  of  woollen  mit- 
tens, and  that  Unity,  after  the  manner  of  her  class,  had 
said,  "Yes,  ma'am";  but  the  consultation  of  Unity's 
wishes  had  been  a  pure  formality.  She  had  no  idea 
of  what  the  seaside  meant,  having  never  seen  the  sea 
or  speculated  on  its  nature.  She  could  form  no  notion 
of  her  future  life  with  the  kind  lady  and  gentleman, 
save  perhaps  that  the  pokers  of  the  establishment  might 
have  other  uses  than  as  instruments  of  chastisement 

92 


STELLA   MARIS  93 

and  that,  at  any  rate,  they  might  be  applied  cold  and 
not  red-hot.  If  they  had  taken  her  up  without  a  word, 
and  put  her  in  an  open  coffin,  and  lowered  her  into  an 
open  grave,  and  left  her  there,  Unity  would  have  made 
no  complaint,  having  at  once  no  standard  whereby  to 
assess  the  right  and  wrong  done  to  her,  and  no  tri- 
bunal to  which  she  could  appeal  higher  than  the  vague 
world  authorities  above  mentioned.  The  instinctive 
animal  might  have  clambered  out  of  the  pit  and  wan- 
dered about  the  country-side  in  search  of  food  and 
shelter,  but  that  would  have  been  all.  The  fervent 
human  soul  would  have  played  but  a  small  part. 

So  one  day  the  matron  came  and  dressed  her  in  the 
parody  of  attire  which  she  had  worn  during  her  la- 
mentable excursion  into  the  world,  and  men  carried 
her,  a  creature  of  no  volition,  down-stairs,  and  put 
her  into  a  cab  with  Lady  Blount,  and  the  two  jour- 
neyed in  a  train  for  an  hour  or  so,  Unity  lying  flat  on 
her  back  along  one  side  of  the  carriage,  and  the  lady 
sitting  opposite,  reading  a  magazine.  The  jolting  of 
the  train  hurt  her,  but  that  was  not  the  lady's  fault. 
Sometimes  the  lady  spoke  to  her,  and  she  said,  "Yes, 
ma'am,"  and,  "No,  ma'am,"  as  she  had  been  taught 
to  do  at  the  orphanage ;  but  what  the  lady  was  saying 
she  did  not  very  well  understand.  She  grasped,  how- 
ever, the  lady's  kindness  of  intention;  and  now  and 
then  the  lady,  looking  up  from  her  magazine,  smiled 
and  nodded  encouragingly,  an  unfathomably  myste- 
rious proceeding,  but  curiously  comforting.  On  the 
opposite  side  of  the  compartment  was  the  most  beau- 
tiful picture  she  had  ever  seen — lovely  ladies  in  gor- 
geous raiment  and  handsome  gentlemen  sitting  at  little 
lamp-lit  tables,  eating  a  meal  which  chiefly  consisted 
of  scarlet  birds;  and  there  were  other  gentlemen,  not 
quite  so  handsome,  hovering  about  with  dishes  and 
bottles  of  wine;  and  the  pillars  of  the  hall  were  of 


94  STELLA   MARIS 

pure  marble,  and  the  tops  of  them  gold,  and  the  ceiling 
was  golden,  too.  In  the  foreground  sat  a  peculiarly 
lovely  lady  in  a  red,  low-cut  frock,  and  an  entrancingly 
handsome  gentleman,  and  they  were  bending  over  the 
table  and  he  held  a  wine-glass  in  his  hand.  Below 
she  read  the  legend,  "Supper  at  the  Coliseum  Hotel." 
She  could  scarcely  keep  her  eyes  off  the  picture.  Lady 
Blount,  noticing  her  rapt  gaze,  questioned  her,  and 
from  her  answers  it  was  obvious  that  it  was  only  the 
details  that  attracted  her — the  lovely  ladies,  the  hand- 
some men,  the  glitter  and  colour  of  the  preposterously 
gaudy  scene.  The  essence  of  it  she  did  not  grasp;  her 
spirit  was  not  transported  into  the  shoddy  fairy-land ; 
her  imagination  was  untouched  by  the  potentialities 
of  life  which  to  a  mind  a  little,  a  very  little,  more 
awakened  it  might,  with  all  its  vulgar  crudity,  have 
suggested. 

After  the  railway  journey  she  was  lifted  into  an- 
other cab,  and  taken  into  a  big  house  with  wonder- 
fully soft  carpets  and  pictures  on  the  walls.  They 
carried  her  into  a  pretty  room  that  looked  like  a  bower 
of  roses, — it  had  a  rose-pattern  wall-paper, — and  from 
the  window  she  could  see  trees  and  a  great  rolling  ex- 
panse of  country.  She  wondered  why  the  place  had 
no  streets.  They  undressed  her.  A  maid-servant,  so 
trim  and  spruce  that  she  addressed  her  as  "ma'am," 
pointed  to  the  heap  of  poor  garments  and  asked : 

"What  are  we  to  do  with  these,  my  lady  ?" 

"Bury  them,"  said  Lady  Blount. 

"Ain't  I  never  going  out  again,  ma'am?"  Unity  in- 
quired humbly. 

"Of  course,  child.  But  we'll  give  you  some  decent 
clothes,"  said  Lady  Blount. 

They  put  her  in  a  bath  and  washed  her.  The  soap 
smelled  so  good  that  surreptitiously  she  got  hold  of 
the  cake  and  nosed  it  like  a  young  dog.  They  dried 


STELLA    MARIS  95 

her  in  warm  towels,  and  slipped  a  night-dress  over  her 
meagre  shoulders.  It  was  then,  perhaps,  that  finger- 
ing the  gossamer  thing,  taking  up  a  bunch  of  stuff 
in  her  fist  and  slowly  letting  it  go,  in  a  dreamy  wonder, 
she  first  began  to  realize  that  she  was  on  the  threshold 
of  a  new  life.  Not  even  the  soft  bed  or  the  delicious 
chicken-broth  that  was  brought  later  eclipsed  the  effect 
produced  by  the  night-dress.  It  had  embroidery  and 
all  sorts  of  blue  ribbons — an  epoch-making  garment. 

Some  time  later,  the  maid,  having  drawn  the  cur- 
tains and  smoothed  her  pillow  and  tucked  her  in, 
said: 

"If  you  want  anything  in  the  night,  just  touch  that 
bell,  and  I  '11  come  to  you." 

Unity  looked  at  her  half  comprehendingly.  "Ring 
a  bell  ?  I  should  n't  dare." 

"Why?" 

"It  's  only  missuses  that  ring  bells." 

"Those  are  Lady  Blount's  orders,  anyway,"  laughed 
the  maid. 

'  'Ere,"  said  Unity,  with  a  beckoning  finger.  "What 
are  they  treating  me  like  this  for?" 

So  might  a  succulently  fed  sailor  have  suspiciously 
interrogated  one  of  a  cannibal  tribe. 

"How  else  would  you  want  them  to  treat  you?" 
asked  the  unpercipient  maid.  "You  've  come  down 
here  to  get  well,  have  n't  you?"  She  bent  down  and 
tied  a  loosened  ribbon  in  a  bow.  "I  declare  if  you 
have  n't  got  on  one  of  Miss  Stella's  nighties !" 

"Who  is  Miss  Stella  ?"  asked  Unity. 

"Miss  Stella?"  The  maid  stared.  To  be  in  the 
Channel  House  and  not  know  who  Miss  Stella  was! 
"Miss  Stella?"  she  repeated  blankly.  "Why,  Miss 
Stella,  of  course." 

The  days  passed  quickly,  and  in  the  pure,  strong1 
air  and  under  the  generous  treatment  Unity  began 


96  STELLA    MARIS 

to  mend.  She  also  began  to  form  a  dim  conception  of 
Miss  Stella.  It  was  gradually  borne  in  upon  her  mind 
that  not  only  the  household,  but  the  whole  cosmic 
scheme,  revolved  round  Miss  Stella.  Sometimes  they 
called  her  by  another  name,  Stellamaris,  which  sounded 
queer,  like  the  names  of  princesses  in  the  fairy-tales 
they  had  given  her  to  read.  Perhaps  this  Miss  Stella 
was  a  fairy-princess.  Why  not?  Thus  it  came  to 
pass  that  even  in  the  darkened  mind  of  this  child  of 
wretchedness  Stellamaris  began  to  shine  with  a  lan> 
bent  glow  of  mystery. 

Now  and  then  the  kind  gentleman  came  to  visit 
her,  with  gifts  of  chocolates  (as  became  her  new  es- 
tate), which  she  accepted  meekly,  though  in  her  heart 
she  regretted  the  peppermint  bull's-eyes  of  fuller  and 
more  satisfying  flavour.  She  learned  in  course  of  time 
that  he  was  the  husband  of  the  woman  whose  image 
still  brought  sweating  fright  into  her  .dreams.  To  save 
her  from  waking  terror,  Lady  Blount  spent  much  time 
and  tact,  enlisting  her  sympathy  for  John  by  convin- 
cing her  that  he  himself  had  received  barbarous  usage 
from  the  same  abhorred  hands.  Unity,  whose  habit 
of  mind  was  to  translate  conceptions  into  terms  of  the 
objective,  wondered  what  form  of  physical  torture 
was  applied  to  John.  She  pitied  him  immensely,  but 
consoled  herself  by  the  reflection  that  as  he  was  very 
big  and  strong,  his  probable  sufferings  were  not  inor- 
dinate. That  so  big  and  strong  a  man,  however, 
should  have  suffered  unresistingly  she  could  not  under- 
stand. 

"Why  did  n't  he  wipe  her  over  the  'ed,  m'  lady?" 
she  asked  simply.  The  "m'  lady"  was  the  result  of 
the  maid's  instructions. 

Lady  Blount  administered  the  necessary  linguistic 
corrections,  and,  proceeding  to  the  sociological  side, 
informed  her  that  gentlemen  never  struck  women,  no 


STELLA   MARIS  97 

matter  how  great  the  provocation.  Unity  was  quick 
to  apply  the  proposition  personally. 

"Then  Mr.  Risca  will  never  beat  me,  even  if  I  do 
wrong?" 

"Good  Heavens !  no,  child,"  cried  Lady  Blount,  hor- 
rified. "Mr.  Risca  is  as  gentle  as  a  kitten.  You 
should  see  him  with  Miss  Stella." 

"Miss  Stella  loves  him  very  much,  m'  lady  ?" 

"Of  course  she  does." 

"And  he  loves  her,  too  ?" 

"Everybody  loves  her,"  said  Lady  Blount,  tenderly. 

The  next  time  that  John  came  to  Southcliff  he  found 
a  convalescent  Unity.  Dressmakers  and  other  fabri- 
cators of  feminine  raiment  had  been  at  work,  and  she 
was  clad  in  blouse  and  short  serge  skirt  and  her  scanty, 
brown  hair,  instead  of  being  screwed  up  in  a  diminu- 
tive bun  at  the  back  of  her  head,  was  combed  and 
brushed  and  secured,  after  the  manner  of  hair  of 
young  persons  of  sixteen,  with  bows  of  ribbon.  She 
stood  gawkily  before  him,  confused  in  her  own  meta- 
morphosis. At  the  orphanage  she  had  worn  the  same 
uniform  from  early  childhood.  During  her  excursion 
into  the  world  she  had  masqueraded  as  the  grown 
woman.  In  the  conventional  attire  of  the  English 
school-girl  she  did  not  recognize  herself.  Her  coarse 
hands,  scarcely  refined  by  illness,  hung  awkwardly  by 
her  side.  An  appeal  for  mercy  hovered  at  the  back 
of  her  dull  and  patient  eyes.  Despite  the  trim  dress 
and  hair,  she  looked  hopelessly  unprepossessing,  with 
her  snub  nose,  wide  mouth,  weak  chin,  and  bulgy  and 
shiny  forehead.  Scragginess,  too,  had  marked  her 
for  its  own. 

"Well,  Unity,"  said  John,  "so  you  're  up  at  last. 
Have  you  been  in  the  garden  ?" 

She  made  the  bob  taught  at  the  orphanage. 

"Yes,  sir." 


98  STELLA    MARTS 

"And  you  're  feeling  well  and  strong?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  don't  you  think  it  's  a  very  lovely  place  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Unity. 

They  were  always  shy  in  each  other's  company, 
question  and  answer  being  the  form  of  their  conversa- 
tion. John,  who  could  talk  all  day  long  to  Stella,  felt 
curiously  constrained  in  the  presence  of  this  unfamil- 
iar type  of  humanity;  and  Unity,  regarding  him  at  the 
same  time  as  a  god  who  had  delivered  her  out  of  the 
House  of  Bondage  and  as  a  fellow-victim  at  the  hands 
of  the  Unspeakable,  scarcely  found  breath  for  the  ut- 
terance of  her  monosyllables. 

"Sit  down  and  go  on  with  your  work,"  said  he. 

He  had  come  upon  her  as  she  sat  by  the  window  of 
her  room  sewing  some  household  linen.  She  obeyed 
meekly.  He  watched  her  busy,  skilful  fingers  for  some 
time. 

"Do  you  like  sewing?" 

"Yes,  sir;  can  sew  beautiful." 

John  lounged  about  the  rose-covered  room.  What 
could  he  say  next.  On  previous  visits  he  had  dis- 
coursed on  their  proposed  life  together,  and  she  had 
been  singularly  unresponsive.  He  had  also  plugged 
her  mind  full,  as  he  hoped,  of  moral  precepts  which 
should  be  of  great  value  hereafter.  But  being  no  orig- 
inal aphorist,  he  had  exhausted  his  ready-made  stock. 
He  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and  looked  out 
of  the  window.  The  little  town  of  Southcliff  lay  hid- 
den below  the  bluff,  and  all  that  he  saw  was  the  Sussex 
weald  lit  by  the  May  sunshine  and  rolling  lazily  in 
pasture  and  woodland  into  the  hazy  distance.  Within, 
the  monotonous  scrabble  of  the  needle  going  in  and 
out  of  stiff  material  alone  broke  the  silence. 

Presently  the  maid  came  in. 

"Miss  Stella's  compliments,  sir,  and  if  you  're  dis- 


STELLA    MARIS  99 

engaged,    she    would    like   to   speak   to   you    for   a 
minute." 

She  had  a  habit  of  summoning  thus  politely,  but  au- 
tocratically, her  high  ministers  of  state. 

"I  will  come  to  Miss  Stella  immediately,"  said  John. 
He  turned  to  Unity.  "Now  that  you  can  get  about 
again,  I  suppose  Lady  Blount  has  told  you  not  to  go 
to  the  other  side  of  the  house." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Do  you  understand  why  ?" 

She  raised  her  eyebrows.  Having  lived  under  the 
despotism  of  the  world  authorities,  she  had  never 
dreamed  of  questioning  the  why  and  wherefore  of  any 
ordinance. 

"It  's  forbidden,  sir." 

"No  one  goes  there  without  express  invitation  from 
Miss  Stella,"  said  John,  indiscreetly.  "If  any  one  did, 
I  don't  know  what  would  happen  to  him." 

He  left  her  with  a  new  idea  in  her  confused  little 
brain.  Mr.  Risca  was  obviously  speaking  the  truth, 
as  he  himself  had  just  been  summoned  by  the  myste- 
rious princess.  Unity  knew  that  she  was  very  beau- 
tiful and  lay  all  her  life  on  a  bed  looking  out  to  sea ; 
that  she  was  an  angel  of  goodness ;  that  she  was  wor- 
shipped by  the  whole  household,  even  by  the  humbler 
members  of  the  servants'  hall,  who  had  never  seen  her. 
A  kitchen-maid  summoned  into  the  presence  for  the 
first  time — it  was  a  question  of  the  carriage  of  coal — 
decked  herself  out  in  her  trimmest  and  cleanest  and 
departed  on  her  errand  with  the  beating  heart  of  one 
who  approaches  royalty.  There  was  a  tradition,  too, 
that  Miss  Stella  was  magically  endowed  with  a  knowl- 
edge of  everything  that  went  on  in  the  house  and  that 
nothing  was  done  without  her  bidding  and  guidance. 
Special  flowers  in  the  garden  were  grown  for  Miss 
Stella.  Special  fowls  in  the  poultry-yard  laid  eggs  ex- 


ioo  STELLA    MARIS 

clusively  for  Miss  Stella.    A  day  was  bright  because 
Miss  Stella  had  requested  the  sun  to  shine.     Unity 
knew  all  this,  and  when  John  went  out,  her  heart  be- 
gan to  flutter  with  a  wild  hope.    She  laid  her  sewing 
in  her  lap  and  pictured  the  scene:  the  maid  would 
open  the  door.     "Unity,  Miss  Stella  desires  to  see 
you."    The  fairy-books  said  that  you  kissed  a  princess's 
hand.    I  think  this  must  have  been  Unity  Blake's  first 
day-dream.    It  was  a  sign  of  a  spirit's  emancipation. 
The  days  passed,  however,  without  the  dream  com- 
ing true.     But  she  was  very  humble.     Why  should 
Miss  Stella  want  to  see  any  one  so  ugly  and  unimpor- 
tant?   Besides,  the  garden,  with  its  walks  and  lawns 
and  shrubberies  and  great,  green  trees;  the  unimag- 
ined  sea  rolling  from  the  purple  rim  far  away,  to  dash 
itself  in  spray  upon  the  shingle  of  the  beach;  the  al- 
most terrifying  freedom;  the  young  animal's  uncon- 
scious exultation  in  returning  health ;  the  feminine,  in- 
stinctive delight  in  tasteful  dress ;  the  singular  absence 
of  harsh,  cold  speech;  the  curious  privilege  of  satiat- 
ing her  young  hunger  at  every  meal — all  these  new 
joys  combined  to  protect  her   from  disappointment. 
There  was  Constable,  too.    At  her  first  meeting  with 
the  great  dog  in  the  garden,  she  was  paralyzed  with 
fright.     He  stood  some  way  off,  watching  her  with 
pricked-up  ears ;  then  he  walked  slowly  up  to  her,  and 
smelled  her  all  over  with  awful  gravity.    She  felt  his 
cold  nose  touch  her  cheek.    She  could  not  run.    Every 
instant  she  expected  him  to  open  his  huge  mouth  and 
devour  her.    But  after  an  eternity  he  turned  away  with 
a  sniff,  and  suddenly  began  to  roll  on  his  back,  writh- 
ing his  neck  and  body  in  odd  contortions  and  throwing 
up  his  great  feet  in  the  air.    A  gardener  appeared  from 
a  shrubbery  close  by,  and  Unity  made  a  wild  rush  for 
his  protection.     The  man  saw  that  she  was  frightened 
and  reassured  her.  Constable  had  only  wanted  to  make 


STELLA   MARIS  101 

certain  that  she  was  not  a  wicked  person  come  with 
intent  to  harm  Miss  Stella.  He  was  Miss  Stella's  own 
dog,  her  bodyguard,  who  saw  to  it  that  no  unauthor- 
ized person  came  into  her  presence. 

"He  would  be  fierce  then?"  she  asked. 

The  gardener  was  amused.  "He  'd  gobble  you  up 
like  winking."  He  called  the  dog,  who  rose  in  a  dig- 
nified way  from  his  gambol. 

"Just  pat  him  on  the  head,  and  don't  look  afraid," 
counselled  the  gardener. 

So  Unity,  taking  courage,  did  as  she  was  bidden, 
and  Constable,  searching  her  soul  with  his  wise  eyes, 
admitted  her  to  his  friendship.  From  that  time  she 
looked  forward  to  her  casual  meetings  with  the  dog, 
although  she  always  felt  a  certain  awe  at  his  strength 
and  bulk,  even  when  he  allowed  her  to  be  most  fa- 
miliar. And  he  was  invested  with  a  human  signifi- 
cance that  also  made  for  reverence.  Gambol  though 
he  might,  like  the  friskiest  and  least  responsible  of 
lambs,  he  filled,  in  the  workaday  hours  of  life,  a  post 
of  extraordinary  honour  and  responsibility.  He  had 
his  being  in  that  inner  shrine  of  mystery  where  the 
fairy-princess  dwelt ;  he  guarded  her  most  sacred  body ; 
he  was  her  most  intimate  friend  and  servant.  Some- 
times, holding  the  dog's  face  between  her  hands,  she 
would  ask  a  child's  question. 

"What  does  she  talk  to  you  about  ?  Why  don't  you 
tell  me  ?"  And  she  would  whisper  messages  in  his  ear. 
Once  she  stuck  a  dandelion  in  his  collar,  and  bade  him 
give  it  to  his  mistress  with  her  love.  Then  fright- 
ened at  her  own  temerity,  she  took  it  back.  The  dream 
did  not  come  true,  but  Constable  became  a  very  sub- 
stantial and  comforting  part  of  its  fabric. 

Then  there  was  Walter  Herold.  He  had  the  fac- 
ulty of  getting  through  the  deep-encrusted  shell  of 
apathy  which  baffled  her  other  friends.  His  quick, 


102  STELLA   MARIS 

laughing  eyes  and  sensitive  face  compelled  confidence. 
He  did  not  wrap  himself  in  the  gloomy  majesty  of  her 
protector,  nor  was  he  abrupt  and  disconcerting  like  Sir 
Oliver.  The  iron  repression  of  her  life  had  kept  her 
dumb.  Even  now,  when  she  took  the  initiative  in  con- 
versation, making  a  statement  or  asking  a  question  in- 
stead of  answering  one,  instinct  jerked  her  eyes  from 
her  interlocutor  to  space  around,  as  though  in  appre- 
hension of  the  fall  of  an  audacity-avenging  thunder- 
bolt. Ignorant  and  inarticulate,  she  now  had  unjustly 
a  reputation  for  sullenness  in  the  household.  Keen 
and  sympathetic  as  were  Lady  Blount  and  the  nurse, 
who  had  undertaken  to  give  her  elementary  instruction 
in  personal  and  table  manners,  they  could  elicit  noth- 
ing but  commonplaces  from  the  chaotic  mind.  To 
Herold  alone  could  the  child  that  she  was  chatter 
freely.  She  told  him  of  her  life  at  the  orphanage, 
the  daily  routine,  the  squabbles  with  school-mates.  She 
spoke  of  her  five-months'  inferno. 

"But  why  did  n't  you  run  out  into  the  street  and 
tell  the  first  policeman  you  met  ?" 

"I  was  always  'fraid  of  p'licemen.  And  'ow  was  I 
to  know  that  was  n't  the  regular  thing  in  service? 
Where  I  came  from,  before  I  went  to  the  orphanage, 
everybody  used  to  knock  each  other  about.  And 
sometimes  they  used  to  beat  us  at  the  orphanage,  but 
more  often  they  put  us  in  the  cell  on  bread  and  water. 
Most  of  the  girls  'drather  to  be  licked.  When  I  was 
at  Smith  Street,  I  thought  the  cell  heaven."  She 
paused  for  a  moment,  and  her  eyes  hardened  evilly. 
"I  'm  jolly  glad  she  's  in  quod,  though.  Will  they  beat 
her  there?" 

"No,  my  dear,"  said  Herold;  "they  're  trying  to 
make  her  good." 

She  laughed  scornfully.  "'Er  good?  If  I  'd 
known  then  what  I  know  now,  I  'd  'ave  poured  scaldin' 
water  over  her.  S'welp  me !" 


STELLA   MARIS  103 

"I  'm  very  glad  you  did  n't,  for  you  and  I  would  n't 
be  sitting  here  now  by  this  beautiful  sea."  He  put  his 
hand  gently  on  her  head.  "Do  you  know  how  you  can 
repay  all  these  people  who  are  so  kind  to  you?" 

"No,"  said  Unity. 

"By  trying  to  forget  everything  that  happened  to 
you  in  the  past.  Don't  think  of  it." 

"I  must,"  she  replied  in  a  dull,  concentrated  tone. 
"I  should  like  to  have  her  'ere  now  and  cut  her  throat." 

Herold  remonstrated,  and  talked  perhaps  more  plati- 
tudinously  than  was  his  wont.  When  he  reported  this 
interview  to  John,  for  it  was  from  Herold  that  he 
learned  most  of  the  psychology  of  Unity  Blake,  John 
frowned. 

"That 's  a  bad  trait." 

"It  will  pass,"  said  Herold.  "She  has  come  from 
the  dungeons  into  the  garden  of  life.  She  is  for  the 
first  time  just  beginning  to  realize  herself  as  a  human 
being.  Naturally  the  savage  peeps  out.  That  will  be 
tamed.  She  has  wonderful  latent  capacities  for  good. 
Already  she  has  invented  a  kind  of  religion  with  Stel- 
lamaris  as  divinity." 

"What  does  she  know  about  Stella?"  John  asked 
roughly. 

"Virtually  everything,"  laughed  Herold.  "We  tallc 
Stella  interminably.  When  she  spoke  of  throat-cut- 
ting, I  brought  in  Stella  with  great  effect.  I  made  her 
go  down  on  her  knees  on  the  big  rock  and  look  up 
at  the  window  and  say,  'Princess  Stellamaris,  I  am  a 
bad  and  wicked  girl,  and  I  am  very  sorry.'  She  looked 
so  penitent,  poor  little  kid,  that  I  kissed  her." 

John  laughed  half  contemptuously  and  then  looked 
glum.  "I  can  never  get  a  word  out  of  her." 

"That  's  not  her  fault,"  said  Herold.  "She  con- 
fuses you,  in  some  way,  with  God.  And  if  you  stand 
over  her  like  an  early  Hebrew  Jah  in  his  most  direful 


104  STELLA    MARIS 

aspect,  you  can't  expect  the  poor  child  to  chirrup  like 
a  grasshopper." 

"I  '11  be  glad  when  I  get  her  under  my  own  con- 
trol," said  John. 

And  all  this  time,  while  she  was  being  deified,  Stel- 
lamaris  remained  tranquilly  unaware  of  the  existence 
of  her  new  devotee.  The  discipline  of  the  house  was 
so  rigid  that  not  a  hint  or  whisper  reached  the  sea- 
chamber.  Perhaps  Constable  in  his  wistful,  doggy 
way  may  have  tried  to  convey  Unity's  messages,  but 
how  can  a  whine  and  a  shake  of  the  head  and  a  touch 
of  the  paw  express  such  a  terribly  complicated  thing 
as  the  love  of  one  human  being  for  another?  If  only 
Unity  had  let  the  dandelion  remain,  or  had  slipped  a 
note  under  his  collar,  Constable  would  have  done  his 
best  to  please.  At  any  rate,  as  the  days  went  on,  he 
showed  himself  more  and  more  gracious  to  Unity. 

Now  it  happened  one  Saturday  morning  that  Stella- 
maris  was  wearing  a  brand-new  dressing-jacket.  It 
was  a  wondrous  affair  of  pale,  shot  silk  that  shim- 
mered like  mother-of-pearl,  and  it  had  frills  and 
sleeves  of  filmy  old  Buckingham  lace.  More  than 
ever  did  she  look  like  some  rare  and  sweet  sea-crea- 
ture. The  jacket  had  come  home  during  the  week, 
but  though  it  had  been  the  object  of  her  feminine  de- 
light, she  had  reserved  the  great  first  wearing  for  Sat- 
urday and  the  eyes  of  her  Great  High  Belovedest. 
Her  chances  for  coquetry  were  few.  She  surveyed 
herself  in  a  hand-mirror,  and  saw  that  she  was  fair. 

"Constable,"  she  said,  ''if  he  does  n't  think  it  per- 
fectly ravishingly  beautiful,  I  shall  die.  You  think  it 
beautiful,  don't  you?" 

Constable,  thus  appealed  to,  rose  from  the  hearth- 
rug, stretched  himself,  and,  approaching,  laid  his  head 
against  his  mistress's  cheek.  Then,  a  favourite  habit, 
he  put  his  forepaws  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  and  stood 


STELLA    MARIS  105 

towering  over  the  sacred  charge  and  gazed  with  wrin- 
kled brow  across  the  channel,  as  though  scanning  the 
horizon  for  hostile  ships.  He  had  done  this  a  thou- 
said  times  with  no  mishap.  He  would  as  soon  have 
thought  of  biting  her  as  of  putting  a  heavy  paw  on 
beloved  body  or  limb.  But  on  this  particular  occasion 
the  edge  of  the  bed  gave  treacherous  footing.  To 
steady  himself,  he  shifted  his  left  paw  an  inch  nearer 
her  arm,  and  happened  to  strike  the  Buckingham  lace. 

"Down.  Constable!"  she  cried. 

He  obeyed;  but  his  claw  caught  in  the  lace,  and 
away  it  ripped  from  the  shoulder. 

"Oh,  darling,  you  've  ruined  my  beautiful  jacket!" 

Constable  wagged  his  tail,  and  came  up  to  be  pet- 
ted. A  man  would  have  confounded  himself  in  apolo- 
gies, and  made  matters  worse.  In  such  a  circum- 
stance the  way  of  the  dog  may  be  recommended. 

Stella  rang  the  bell.  The  maid  entered.  Her  Se- 
rene High-and-Mightiness  the  nurse  was  summoned. 
Dismay  reigned  in  the  sea-chamber,  The  dressing  and 
undressing  of  Stellamaris  was  a  tragic  matter. 

"If  it  's  not  mended  before  Mr.  Risca  comes,  my 
heart  will  break,"  she  said. 

The  maid  took  the  dressing- jacket  and  the  torn  lace 
down-stairs.  Inspecting  them,  she  found  the  damage 
not  irreparable.  The  rents  might  be  temporarily  con- 
cealed from  the  unseeing  eyes  of  man.  But  it  would 
take  time.  She  was  busy,  in  the  midst  of  some  work 
for  her  mistress.  Human  nature  asserting  itself,  she 
dratted  Constable.  On  her  way  to  her  room  she 
glanced  out  of  a  window  that  overlooked  the  lawn. 
There,  in  the  May  sunshine,  sat  Unity,  hemming  dust- 
ers. Now,  Unity  was  made  for  higher  things  of  the 
needle  than  dusters.  She  had  a  genius  for  needle- 
work. The  maid  knew  it.  In  a  few  moments,  there- 
fore, Unity  had  exchanged  the  dull  duster  for  the  ex- 


io6  STELLA   MARIS 

quisite  and  thrilling  garment,  warm  from  the  sweet 
body  of  the  Lady  of  Mystery  herself.  The  maid 
brought  the  necessary  battery  of  implements  with 
which  such  delicate  repairs  are  executed,  and  left  an 
enraptured  orphan  on  a  rustic  bench. 

Unity  set  to  work.  The  mending  of  torn  lace  is 
a  ticklish  affair  under  the  most  prosaic  of  conditions : 
when  goddesses  and  fairy-princesses  and  Stellamarises 
are  mixed  up  in  it,  the  occupation  absorbs  mind  and 
soul.  Unity's  first  awakening  to  the  fact  of  an  out- 
side world  was  effected  by  a  huge,  grayish  blue  head 
thrust  between  her  face  and  her  needle.  It  was  Con- 
stable, who  had  been  let  loose  for  his  morning  frisk. 
She  pushed  him  away.  Even  the  most  majestic  of 
Great  Danes  is  moist  about  the  jowl.  Suppose  he 
dribbled  on  the  sacred  vesture !  Marrow-freezing  pos- 
sibility! She  held  his  head  at  arm's  length,  and  bade 
him  begone.  But  Constable  broke  through  her  puny 
restraint  and  sniffed  at  the  dressing-jacket.  He  sniffed 
at  it  in  so  insistent  and  truculent  a  manner  that  Unity 
grew  frightened.  She  held  the  dressing- jacket  high 
in  the  air. 

"Just  you  clear  out!"  she  cried  and  jerked  the  arm 
in  an  indiscreet  gesture.  Whimsical  fate  decreed  that 
it  should  slip  through  her  fingers.  It  fell  on  the  lawn. 
She  pounced.  Constable  pounced.  He  pounced  first, 
caught  the  jacket  in  his  mouth,  and  trotted  across  the 
lawn.  She  pursued.  The  trot  became  a  loping  gallop. 
She  ran,  she  called.  The  gutter  child's  vernacular 
came  to  her  aid;  she  called  him  unrecordable  things. 
Constable,  whose  ears  had  never  been  so  shocked  be- 
fore, galloped  the  faster.  He  bolted  into  the  house, 
head  erect,  the  body  of  the  jacket  in  his  mouth,  and 
a  forlorn  sleeve  trailing  on  the  ground.  Unity  pur- 
sued breathless,  in  the  awful  excitement  of  despair. 
She  had  no  idea  of  place.  Here  was  a  horrible  dog — 


STELLA   MARIS  107 

he  had  lapsed  utterly  from  grace — robbing  her  of  the 
only  thing  in  her  life  that  had  been  precious.  Her 
childish  soul  was  concentrated  on  the  rescue  of  the 
holy  garment.  Constable  darted  with  scrabbling  pads 
up  the  stairs.  On  the  landing  he  halted  for  a  moment, 
and,  panting,  looked  down  on  her  at  the  bottom  of 
the  flight.  She  crept  up  slowly,  using  hypocritical 
terms  of  endearment.  He  cocked  derisive  ears.  When 
she  had  reached  half  way,  he  tossed  his  head  and 
loped  on  down  a  corridor,  up  more  stairs.  In  the 
house  not  a  soul  was  stirring,  not  a  sound  was  heard 
save  the  dull  thud  of  the  dog's  pads  on  the  carpet. 
Outside  a  cuckoo  expressed  ironical  views  on  the  situ- 
ation. Once  Unity  nearly  caught  the  robber,  but  he 
sprang  beyond  her  grasp. 

At  last  he  butted  a  door  open  with  his  head,  and 
vanished.  Unity  followed  blindly,  and  stood  trans- 
fixed a  yard  or  two  beyond  the  threshold  of  the 
room. 

It  was  a  vast  chamber,  apparently  all  window  and 
blue  sky,  and  on  a  bed  by  a  window  was  a  face  framed 
in  a  mass  of  brown  hair — the  face  of  a  girl  with  beau- 
tiful eyes  that  looked  at  you  like  stars.  To  Unity  it 
seemed  two  or  three  miles  from  where  she  stood  to 
the  bedside.  Constable  was  there  already,  and  he  had 
surrendered  the  jacket.  His  tail  wagged  slowly,  and 
his  head,  with  cocked  ears,  was  on  one  side. 

"Oh,  Constable,  it  's  very  good  of  you,  but  now 
you  've  done  for  my  jacket  altogether !  .Why  will  you 
try  to  be  a  lady's  maid  ?" 

It  was  the  most  exquisite  voice  in  the  world.  Unity 
stood  spellbound.  She  realized  that  she  had  unwit- 
tingly penetrated  into  the  Holy  of  Holies.  It  was  the 
princess  herself. 

"Who  are  you,  my  dear?"  asked  Stellamaris. 

Unity's  heart  was  beating.     Her  lips  were  dry;  she 


io8  STELLA    MARTS 

licked  them.  She  made  the  orphan's  bob.  Something- 
stuck  in  her  throat.  Her  head  was  in  a  whirl. 

"Unity,  m'  lady,"  she  gasped. 

A  peal  of  little  golden  bells  seemed  to  dance  from 
corner  to  corner  of  the  vast  room :  it  was  Stellamaris 
laughing. 

"I  'm  not  'my  lady.'  Only  Aunt  Julia  is  'my  lady.' 
But  I  've  never  seen  you  before,  dear.  Where  do  you 
come  from?" 

Unity  pointed.  "Constable — the  jacket — I  was 
mending  of  it." 

Stellamaris  at  once  appreciated  the  theatrical  side 
of  the  situation.  She  gripped  the  Great  Dane  by  the 
dewlap  in  her  fragile  fingers. 

"Oh,  you  silly  dear  Lord  High  Constable!  It  's 
his  scent,"  she  explained.  "Anything  he  finds  in  the 
house  that  I  've  worn,  he  always  brings  me.  Susan 
has  to  lock  her  door  against  him.  You  were  mending 
my  lace?" 

"In  the  garden." 

Stella  laughed  again.  "Foolish  Constable,  I  can  see 
it  all.  What  did  you  say  your  name  was,  my  dear?" 

"Unity,  m'  lady." 

"Then  come  here,  Unity,  and  let  us  see  whether 
Constable  has  utterly  ruined  the  jacket.  I  did  so  want 
to  wear  it  this  afternoon." 

Unity  walked  the  two  or  three  miles  to  the  bedside, 
and  took  the  jacket,  and  held  it  up  for  the  inspection 
of  four  rueful  eyes.  There  were  great  wet  marks 
cm  it,  of  course,  but  these  would  dry.  Otherwise  no 
damage  was  done,  Constable  having  carried  it  as  ten- 
derly as  a  retriever  does  a  partridge. 

"How  old  are  you,  Unity?"  asked  Stella. 

"Nearly  sixteen,  m'  lady." 

"So  am  I.  But  how  clever  you  must  be  to  mend 
this!  Now,  when  I  try  to  sew,  I  make  great  big 


STELLA    MARIS  109 

stitches  that  every  one  laughs  at."  She  examined  the 
repairs  that  Unity  had  already  executed.  "I  don't 
know  when  I  've  seen  such  beautiful  work." 

Unity's  cheeks  burned.  Her  heart  was  full.  She 
could  utter  no  word  of  reply  to  such  graciousness. 
Tears  started  into  her  eyes.  Her  nose  began  to  water ; 
she  wiped  it  with  the  back  of  her  hand. 

There  was  a  swish  of  stiff  skirts  at  the  door.  Unity 
turned  guiltily  and  beheld  the  nurse.  Then,  losing 
her  head,  she  grabbed  the  dressing-jacket  and  bolted 
like  a  frightened  hare. 

"What  was  that  child  doing  in  your  room,  darling?" 

Stellamaris  explained  more  or  less  to  the  nurse's 
satisfaction. 

"But  who  is  she  ?" 

Faithful  to  the  Unwritten  Law,  the  nurse  lied. 

"Just  a  little  girl  from  the  village  who  has  come 
in  for  the  day  to  help  with  the  sewing." 

"I  should  like  to  see  her  again,"  said  Stella. 

"I  'm  sorry  you  can't,  darling." 

"Why?" 

"She  is  going  to  London  for  good  this  afternoon." 

"I  'in  sorry,"  said  Stella. 

And  the  word  of  the  lie  went  forth,  and  to  it  were 
bound  the  entire  household  from  Sir  Oliver  to  the 
kitchen-maid  and  John  and  Herold,  when  they  arrived 
for  the  week-end.  Herold  had  no  choice  but  the 
bondage,  but  he  sighed.  It  would  have  been  better,  he 
said,  to  bind  Unity  herself  to  silence.  Any  fabric 
built  of  lies  offended  his  fine  sense.  Beauty  was 
beauty,  the  highest  good ;  but  it  must  have  truth  as  its 
foundation.  Beauty  reared  in  falsehood  was  doomed 
to  perish.  The  exquisiteness  of  the  Trianon  ended  in 
the  tumbrils.  The  Tuileries  fell  in  the  cataclysm  of 
Sedan.  Sometimes  Herold  played  Cassandra,  and  on 
such  occasions  no  one  paid  any  attention  to  his  proph- 


no  STELLA    MARIS 

ecies.  He  was  disregarded  now.  For  the  rest  of  her 
stay  at  the  Channel  House,  Unity,  as  far  as  Stella  was 
concerned,  had  vanished  into  the  unknown.  No  sum- 
mons came  to  her  from  the  sea-chamber ;  but  she  had 
met  her  goddess  face  to  face  for  a  few  throbbing  mo- 
ments, and  she  fed  on  the  blissful  memory  for  many 
a  long  day  afterwards. 


CHAPTER  IX 

MISS  LINDON  moved  her  goods  and  chattels, 
together  with  Dandy,  Dickie,  and  Phoebe, 
into  the  little  house  at  Kilburn.    John  and 
Unity  followed  with  the  furniture  he  had  procured  on 
the  hire-purchase  system  for  their  respective  rooms, 
and  the  curtain  was  rung  up  on  the  comic  opera. 

Herold  had  vainly  tried  to  guide  his  friend  in  the 
matter  of  furnishing;  but  their  ideas  being  in  hopeless 
conflict,  he  had  given  up  in  despair.  John,  by  way 
of  proving  how  far  superior  his  methods  were  to  Her- 
old's,  rushed  into  a  vast  emporium,  selected  the  insides 
of  two  bedrooms  and  a  library  complete  ( as  per  adver- 
tisement), and  the  thing  was  done  in  a  couple  of  min- 
utes. He  girded  triumphantly  at  Herold,  who  would 
have  taken  two  years.  Miss  Lindon  approved  his 
choice,  everything  was  so  clean  and  shiny.  She  espe- 
cially admired  the  library  carpet  (advertised  as  Ax- 
minster),  a  square  of  amazing  hues,  mustard  and 
green  and  magenta  predominant,  the  ruins  of  an  earth- 
quake struck  by  lightning.  It  gave,  she  said,  such 
brightness  and  colour  to  the  room.  To  the  bedrooms 
she  herself  added  the  finishing  touch  and  proudly  led 
John  up-stairs  to  inspect  them.  He  found  his  bed, 
wash-stand,  toilet-table,  and  chairs  swathed  in  muslin 
and  pink  ribbon.  His  heart  sank.  This  was  a  mania. 
If  she  had  owned  a  dromedary,  she  would  have  fitted 
it  out  with  muslin  and  ribbon.  He  glanced  apprehen- 
sively at  the  water-jug;  that  alone  stood  in  its  modest 
nudity.  Miss  Lindon  beamed.  Was  n't  the  room  more 

in 


ii2  STELLA    MARIS 

homelike?  He  had  not  the  heart  to  do  otherwise  than 
assent. 

"There  's  one  thing,  my  dear  Miss  Lindon,  that 
John  's  very  particular  about,"  said  Herold,  gravely, 
when  he,  in  his  turn,  was  shown  over  the  premises, 
with  pomp  and  circumstance;  "you  must  n't  put  rib- 
bons in  his  pyjamas." 

Unity,  whose  early-discovered  gift  of  the  needle  was 
requisitioned  for  this  household  millinery,  thought  it 
all  mighty  fine.  It  had  been  impressed  upon  her  that 
she  was  no  longer  a  guest,  as  at  Southcliff,  but  an  in- 
mate of  the  house,  with  a  definite  position.  She  had 
passed  from  the  legal  guardianship  of  the  Sisters  of 
Saint  Martha  to  that  of  Mr.  Risca.  The  house  was 
her  home,  which  she  shared  on  equal  terms  with  him 
and  Miss  Lindon.  She  was  no  longer  to  call  them 
"Sir"  and  "Ma'am."  Miss  Lindon  took  the  child  to 
her  warm  heart  and  became  "Aunt  Gladys."  She  sug- 
gested the  analogous  title  for  her  nephew;  but  he  put 
his  foot  down  firmly  and  declined  to  be  called  "Uncle 
John."  He  said  it  was  farcical,  subversive  of  the  tragic 
dignity  of  the  situation.  She  yielded  complacently 
without  in  the  least  understanding  what  he  meant. 

"But  you  must  have  some  name,  dear,"  she  pleaded. 
"Suppose  she  found  that  the  house  was  on  fire :  it 
might  be  burned  to  the  ground  before  she  could  settle 
how  to  call  you." 

"Oh,  let  her  call  me  Demosthenes,"  he  cried  in  des- 
peration, taking  up  his  pen, — he  had  been  interrupted 
in  the  middle  of  an  article, — "and  also  tell  her,  my 
dear  aunt,  that,  fire  or  no  fire,  if  she  comes  into  this 
room  while  I  'm  writing,  I  '11  make  her  drink  the 
ink-pot." 

It  was  eventually  decided  that  to  Unity  he  should  be 
"guardian."  The  sacrosanctity  of  his  library  was  also 
theoretically  established.  Unity,  accustomed  to  disci- 


STELLA    MARIS  113 

pline,  paid  scrupulous  observance  to  the  taboo;  but 
Miss  Lindon  could  never  understand  it.  Slje  would 
tap  very  gently  at  John's  door,  sometimes  three  or  four 
times  before  he  heard.  At  his  "Come  in,"  she  would 
enter,  manipulating  the  door-knob  so  as  to  make  no 
noise,  and  would  creep  on  tiptoe  across  the  resplendent 
carpet. 

"Now,  I  'm  not  going  to  disturb  you,  dear.  Please 
go  on  writing.  I  only  want  to  say  that  I  'm  ordering 
some  tooth-stuff  for  Unity,  and  I  don't  know  whether 
to  buy  paste  or  powder." 

"Give  her  what  you  use  yourself,  my  dear  aunt." 

Then  would  follow  a  history  of  her  dentist.  Such 
a  gentlemanly  man;  in  great  trouble,  too;  he  had  just 
lost  his  fourth  wife.  John  glared  at  his  copy.  "Care- 
less fellow !"  he  growled.  Many  of  his  witticisms  were 
at  second  hand. 

"Indeed  he  's  not.    He  's  most  careful,  I  assure  you. 
I  would  recommend  him  to  anybody." 
.    And  so  forth  and  so  forth,  until  John  would  rise 
and,  taking  her  by  her  plump  shoulders  and  luring  her 
across  the  threshold,  lock  the  door  against  her. 

"She  will  drive  me  into  a  mad-house,"  he  com- 
plained to  Herold.  "I  want  to  murder  her  and  hug 
her  at  the  same  instant." 

In  its  primitive  essentials,  however,  the  comic-opera 
life  was  not  impossible  to  the  man  of  few  material 
demands :  he  slept  in  a  comfortable  bed,  his  bath  was 
filled  in  the  mornings,  wholesome  food,  not  too  fan- 
tastic, was  set  before  him.  The  austere  and  practical 
Phoebe  saw  to  these  important  matters.  It  was  in  the 
embroidery  of  life  that  the  irresponsible  grotesque  en- 
tered. It  took  many  weeks  to  persuade  Miss  Lindon 
that  it  was  not  her  duty,  if  he  was  out  of  an  evening, 
to  wait  up  until  his  return.  It  was  for  her  to  look 
after  his  well-being.  Before  going  to  bed  he  might 


H4  STELLA    MARIS 

want  hot  cocoa,  or  bread  and  milk,  or  a  cheery  chat. 
How  could  he,  in  loneliness,  procure  these  comforts 
at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning?  It  was  no  trouble 
at  all  to  her  to  sit  up,  she  pleaded.  When  Dandy  was 
ill,  she  had  sat  up  whole  nights  together.  John  prayed 
to  Heaven  to  deliver  him  from  illness.  Another  fea- 
ture of  the  masculine  existence  that  passed  her  under- 
standing was  the  systematic  untidiness  of  the  library. 
Books,  papers,  pipes,  pens,  paper-clips,  and  what  not 
seemed  to  have  been  poured  out  of  a  sack,  and  then 
kicked  in  detail  to  any  chance  part  of  the  room. 
When  she  restored  order  out  of  chaos,  and  sat  with 
a  complacent  smile  amid  her  prim  gimcrackeries,  John 
would  be  dancing  about  in  a  foaming  frenzy.  Where 
were  his  long  envelopes  ?  Where  had  that  dear  magpie 
of  a  woman  secreted  them  ?  Her  ingenuity  in  finding 
hiding-places  amounted  to  genius.  Then  in  impatient 
wrath  he  would  take  out  drawers  and  empty  their  con- 
tents on  the  floor  until  the  missing  objects  came  to 
light.  Miss  Lindon  sighed  when  she  tidied  up  after 
him,  not  at  the  work  to  do  all  over  again,  but  at  the 
baffling  mystery  of  man. 

For  a  long  time  Unity  regarded  the  feckless  lady 
with  some  suspicion,  sniffed  at  her,  so  to  speak,  like 
a  dog  confronted  with  a  strange  order  of  being.  For 
the  first  time  in  her  young  life  she  had  met  an  elder 
in  only  nominal  authority  over  her.  Of  Phoebe,  stern 
and  Calvinistic,  with  soul-searching  eye,  who  by  some 
social  topsyturvydom  was  put  into  subjection  under 
her,  she  lived  in  mortal  terror ;  but  for  "Aunt  Gladys" 
she  had  a  wondering  contempt. 

"Unity,"  said  Miss  Lindon  one  morning,  in  the 
early  days,  "when  you  've  finished  writing  your  copy 
for  your  guardian,  you  had  better  learn  a  chapter. 
Bring  me  your  Bible,  and  I  '11  find  one.  In  my  time 
all  young  ladies  learned  chapters," — so  do  orphans  still 


STELLA    MARIS  115 

in  convents,  until  orphans  hate  chapters  with  bitter 
hatred;  but  this  the  good  lady  did  not  know, — "and 
then  you  might,  like  a  dear  girl,  run  off  the  hems  of 
the  new  sheets  on  the  sewing-machine." 

"I  dunno  'ow  to  work  a  sewing-machine." 

"Then  tell  Phcebe  to  give  you  a  lesson  at  once.  It 's 
a  most  useful  accomplishment.  You  have  such  a  tre- 
mendous lot  to  learn,  my  dear.  There  's  the  piano  and 
French,  and  embroidery  and  drawing,  and  nowadays  I 
suppose  young  ladies  must  learn  politics.  Perhaps  you 
had  better  begin.  There  's  a  leading  article  on  free 
trade — or  the  Young  Turks,  I  forget  which — in  the 
'Daily  Telegraph.'  I  'm  sure  it  must  be  very  clever. 
You  had  better  take  away  the  paper  and  read  it  care- 
fully,"— she  handed  the  paper  to  the  bewildered  child, 
— "and  when  you  've  read  it,  come  and  tell  me  all 
about  it.  It  will  save  me  the  trouble  of  going  through 
it,  and  so  both  of  us  will  be  benefited.  And,  Unity 
dear,"  she  added  as  the  girl  was  leaving  the  drawing- 
room,  "it  's  such  a  beautiful  day,  so  in  an  hour's  time 
be  ready  to  come  out  with  me.  We  '11  take  the  omni- 
bus to  the  Marble  Arch  and  walk  in  the  park." 

Unity  went  into  the  dining-room,  where  in  working- 
hours  she  was  supposed  to  have  her  being,  and  stared 
at  her  avalanche  of  duties:  her  copy  and  the  one  or 
two  easy  lessons  set  by  John ;  the  chapter  of  the  Bible ; 
the  instruction  on  the  sewing-machine,  involving  the 
tackling  of  a  busy  and  irritable  Phcebe;  the  long  col- 
umn of  print  in  the  newspaper ;  and  the  preparation  of 
herself  for  walking  abroad — all  to  be  accomplished 
within  the  space  of  one  hour.  For  the  first  time  in 
her  life  she  encountered  orders  which  had  not  the 
doomful  backing  of  the  world  authorities. 

The  copy  and  the  lessons  for  her  guardian  were, 
however,  matters  of  high  import.  They  filled  her 
hour.  At  the  end  of  it  she  put  on  her  hat.  A  ride  in 


n6  STELLA    MARIS 

an  omnibus  was  still  novelty  enough  to  be  a  high  ad- 
venture. On  the  way  to  the  Marble  Arch,  Miss  Lin- 
don  in  her  amiable  way  asked  how  she  had  spent  her 
morning,  and  hoped  that  she  had  not  been  getting  into 
mischief.  Of  Bible  chapter,  sewing-machine,  or  leader 
on  free  trade  (or  Young  Turks)  she  appeared  to  have 
remembered  nothing.  The  result  of  this  flabbiness  of 
command  was  lamentable.  The  next  time  Miss  Lin- 
don  dismissed  her  to  the  execution  of  certain  behests, 
Unity,  after  closing  the  door  behind  her,  stuck  out 
her  tongue.  It  was  ungenteel,  it  was  ungrateful,  it 
was  un-anything-you-like,  but  the  act  gave  her  a  thrill 
of  joy,  a  new  sensation.  It  was  the  first  definite  asser- 
tion of  her  individuality.  The  red  tongue  thus  vul- 
garly flaunted  was  a  banner  of  revolt  against  the  world 
authorities. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  she  could  accustom  herself 
to  taking  her  meals  at  the  table  with  Miss  Lindon  and 
her  guardian.  Such  table  manners  as  had  been  incul- 
cated at  the  orphanage  had  been  lost  in  Smith  Street, 
and  the  chief  point  of  orphanage  etiquette  was  not  to 
throw  food  about,  a  useless  injunction,  for  obvious 
reasons.  Accordingly,  despite  her  probationary  pe- 
riod at  the  Channel  House,  Unity  regarded  the  shin- 
ing knives  and  forks  and  china  and  glass  with  malevo- 
lent dislike.  The  restrictions  on  so  simple  a  matter 
as  filling  herself  with  nourishment  were  maddening  in 
their  complexity.  Why  could  n't  she  bite  into  her  hunk 
of  bread  instead  of  breaking  off  a  mouthful?  Why 
could  n't  she  take  up  her  fish  in  her  fingers?  Why 
could  n't  she  spit  out  bones  without  the  futile  inter- 
mediary of  the  fork?  Why  could  n't  she  wipe  the 
gravy  from  her  plate  with  soft  crumb?  Why  could 
n't  she  use  her  knife  for  the  consumption  of  apple 
tart?  And  how  difficult  the  art  of  mastication  with 
closed  lips!  She  did  not  revolt.  She  humbly  tried 


STELLA    MARIS  117 

to  follow  the  never-ending  instructions ;  but  their  mul- 
tiplicity confused  her,  making  her  shy  and  painfully 
nervous.  Drink  had  a  devilish  habit  of  going  the 
wrong  way.  It  never  went  the  wrong  way  with  her 
two  companions.  Unity  wondered  .why. 

Then  at  the  table  sat  her  guardian,  gloomy,  preoc- 
cupied, Olympian  in  the  eyes  of  the  child ;  and  Aunt 
Gladys,  weaving  corrections,  polite  instructions,  remi- 
niscences, and  irrelevant  information  into  an  inextri- 
cable tangle  of  verbiage ;  while  Phoebe  hovered  about, 
fixing  her  always,  no  matter  what  she  was  doing, 
with  a  relentless,  glassy  eye  which  no  solecism 
escaped. 

There  were  also  a  myriad  other  external  matters 
which  caused  her  great  perplexity — the  correct  use  of 
a  handkerchief  (one's  sleeve  was  so  much  handier 
when  one's  nose  watered),  a  tooth-brush,  nail-scissors. 
The  last  she  could  not  understand.  Why,  then,  did 
God  give  people  teeth  to  bite  with?  The  question  of 
speech  presented  extraordinary  difficulties.  It  was 
months  before  her  ear  could  even  distinguish  between 
o  and  aow,  between  a  and  i,  between  on  and  ah;  and 
the  mysteries  of  the  aspirate  became  a  terror.  She 
grew  afraid  to  speak.  Thus  her  progress  in  the  graces 
of  polite  society  was  but  slow. 

John,  not  fired  by  enthusiasm,  but  intent  on  work- 
ing out  his  scheme  of  indemnification,  gave  up  an 
hour  or  so  a  day  to  her  mental  culture.  He  was  not 
an  unskilful  teacher,  but  her  undeveloped  mind  had  to 
begin  at  the  beginning  of  things.  She  learned  pain- 
fully. The  great  world  had  revealed  itself  to  her 
with  blinding  suddenness.  For  months  she  was  simply 
stupid. 

"How  are  things  shaping?"  asked  Herold  one  day. 
He  had  been  lunching  at  Kilburn,  and  Unity,  feeling 
that  she  was  expected  to  be  on  her  very  best  behaviour 


n8  STELLA    MARIS 

before  him,  had  been  more  than  usually  awkward  and 
ungenteel.  This  time  a  fish-bone  had  stuck  in  her 
throat. 

John  frowned.  "You  saw.  Shapelessly.  It 's  hope- 
less." 

"You  're  absolutely  wrong,"  said  Herold.  "There 
are  vast  possibilities  in  Unity." 

"Not  one,"  said  John. 

"Are  you  trying  the  right  way  ?  Do  you  remember 
what  the  old  don  said  when  he  came  across  two  un- 
dergraduates vainly  persuading  the  college  tortoise  to 
eat  lettuce:  'Gentlemen,  are  you  quite  sure  you  are 
trying  at  the  right  end  ?' ' 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Can't  you  try  by  the  way  of  the  heart  ?" 

John  flared  up.  "You  're  talking  rot.  The  child 
has  n't  had  a  harsh  word  since  she  has  been  here.  I  'm 
not  honey-tongued  as  a  rule,  but  to  her  I  've  been  a 
female  saint  with  a  lily  in  my  hand.  And  my  aunt, 
with  all  her  maddening  ways,  would  not  hurt  the  feel- 
ings of  a  black  beetle." 

"Quite  so,"  said  Herold.  "But  all  that  's  negative. 
Why  can't  you  try  something  positive?  Give  Unity 
love,  and  you  '11  be  astonished  at  the  result." 

"Love,"  said  John,  impatiently.  "You  're  a  senti- 
mentalist." 

This  time  Herold  flared  up.  "If  I  am,"  he  cried,  "I 
thank  the  good  God  who  made  me.  This  affectation 
of  despising  sentiment,  this  cant  that  a  lot  of  you  writ- 
ing fellows  talk,  makes  me  sick.  If  a  bowelless  devil 
makes  a  photograph  of  a  leprous  crew  in  a  thieves' 
kitchen,  you  say:  'Ha!  Ha!  Here  's  the  real  thing. 
There  's  no  foolish  sentiment  here.  This  is  LIFE!' 
Ugh!  Of  all  the  rotten  poses  of  the  superior  young 
ass,  this  is  the  rottenest.  Everything  noble,  beautiful, 
and  splendid  that  has  ever  been  written,  sung,  painted, 


STELLA    MARIS  119 

or  done  since  the  world  began,  has  been  born  in  senti- 
ment, has  been  carried  through  by  sentiment,  has  been 
remembered  and  reverenced  by  sentiment.  I  hate  to 
hear  an  honest  man  like  you  sneering  at  sentiment. 
You  yourself  took  on  this  job  through  sentiment.  And 
now  when  I  tell  you  in  a  few  simple  words,  'Love  that 
child  whose  destiny  you  've  made  yourself  responsible 
for,'  you  pooh-pooh  the  staring  common  sense  of  the 
proposition  and  call  me  a  sentimentalist — by  which  you 
mean  an  infernal  fool." 

John,  who  had  bent  heavy  brows  upon  him  during 
this  harangue,  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth. 

"It 's  you  who  are  feeding  the  tortoise  at  the  wrong 
end,"  he  said  unhumorously.  "This  is  not  a  matter 
of  sentiment,  but  of  duty.  I  do  my  best  to  be  good 
to  the  child.  I  '11  do  the  utmost  I  can  to  make  repara- 
tion for  what  she  has  suffered.  But  as  for  loving  her 
— I  suppose  you  know  what  love  means  ?  As  for  lov- 
ing this  poor  little  slut,  with  her  arrested  develop- 
ment and  with  the  torture  the  sight  of  her  means 
to  me,  why,  my  good  man,  you  're  talking  monkey 
gibberish !" 

Herold  lit  a  cigarette  with  nervous  fingers.  The 
animation  in  his  thin,  sensitive  face  had  not  yet  died 
away. 

"I  'm  not  talking  gibberish,"  he  replied ;  "I  'm  talk- 
ing sense." 

"Pooh!" — or  something  like  it — said  John. 

"Well,  super-sense,  then,"  cried  Herold,  who  did 
not  quite  know  what  he  meant,  but  felt  certain  that 
for  the  instant  the  term  would  floor  his  adversary. 
"And  you  're  as  blind  as  an  owl.  Deep  down  in  that 
poor  little  slut  is  a  spark  of  the  divine  fire — love  in  its 
purest,  the  transcendental  flame.  I  know  it  's  there. 
I  know  it  as  a  water-finder  knows  there  's  water  when 
the  twig  bends  in  his  hands.  Get  at  it.  Find  it.  Fan 


-120  STELLA    MARIS 

it  into  a  blaze.  You  '11  never  regret  it  all  your  life 
long." 

John's  frown  deepened.  "If  you  're  suggesting  the 
usual  asinine  romance,  Walter,  between  ward  and 
guardian — " 

Herold  caught  up  his  hat. 

"Of  all  the  dunderheaded  asses!  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  yourself.  I  can't  talk  to  you." 

And  in  a  very  rare  fury  he  sped  from  the  house, 
slamming  doors  after  him,  leaving  John  foolishly 
frowning  in  the  middle  of  the  violent  Axminster 
carpet. 

UNITY,  for  all  her  fingers'  nimbleness  with  needle  and 
thread,  was  clumsy  with  her  hands.  Glasses,  bowls, 
vases,  whatever  she  touched,  seemed  to  be  possessed 
by  an  imp  of  spontaneous  disruption.  Hitherto  her 
code  of  morals  with  regard  to  breakage  had  been,  first, 
to  hide  the  pieces;  secondly,  to  deny  guilt  if  ques- 
tioned; thirdly,  if  found  out,  to  accept  punishment 
with  sullen  apathy :  for  chastisement  had  followed  dis- 
covered breakage  as  inevitably  as  the  night  the  day. 
Accordingly  when  she  broke  a  bowl  of  gold-fish  in  the 
drawing-room,  she  obeyed  ingrained  tradition.  She 
threw  the  fish  out  of  the  window,  mopped  up  the  wa- 
ter, put  a  hassock  on  the  wet  patch  on  the  carpet, 
and  threw  the  shards  of  the  bowl  into  the  dust-bin. 
Miss  Lindon,  entering  soon  afterward,  missed  her 
gold-fish,  bought  only  a  few  days  before  from  an  itin- 
erant vendor.  Unity  disclaimed  knowledge  of  their 
whereabouts.  Phcebe,  being  summoned,  took  the  parts 
of  principal  witness,  counsel  for  the  prosecution, 
judge,  and  jury  all  in  one.  Unity  stood  convicted. 
The  maid  was  sent  back  to  her  work.  "Now,"  thought 
Unity,  "I  'm  going  to  catch  it,"  and  she  stood  with 
her  eyes  on  the  floor,  stubbornly  awaiting  the  decree 


STELLA    MARIS  121 

of  doom.  An  unaccustomed  sound  met  her  ear,  and 
looking-  up,  she  beheld  the  gentle  lady  weeping  bit- 
terly. 

"I  should  n't  have  minded  your  breaking  the  bowl, 
though  I  should  like  to  know  what  has  become  of  the 
poor  little  fishes, — they  must  be  real  fish  out  of  water, 
poor  dears!  and  one  of  them  I  called  Jacky  was  just 
beginning  to  know  me, — but  why  did  you  tell  me  a 
story  about  it?" 

Unity,  not  having  the  wit  to  retort  truthfully  that 
it  seemed  the  natural  thing  to  do,  maintained  a  stolid 
silence. 

Miss  Lindon,  profoundly  upset  by  this  depravity, 
read  her  a  moral  lecture  on  the  sin  of  lying,  in  which 
she  quoted  the  Book  of  Revelation,  related  the  story 
of  George  Washington  and  an  irrelevant  episode  in 
her  far-away  childhood,  and  finally  asserting  that  John 
would  be  furiously  angry  if  he  heard  of  her  naughti- 
ness, bade  her  go  and  find  the  gold-fish,  which  must  be 
panting  their  little  hearts  out.  And  that  was  the  last 
Unity  heard  of  the  matter.  She  thought  Aunt  Gladys 
a  fool.  Thenceforward  she  felt  cynically  indifferent 
toward  accidental  breakages  of  Aunt  Gladys's  prop- 
erty. 

But  one  day  during  John's  absence  she  upset  a 
Dresden  china  shepherd, — such  a  brave,  saucy  shep- 
herd,— that  stood  on  his  writing-desk,  and,  to  her  dis- 
may, the  head  rolled  apart  from  the  body.  It  was  one 
of  his  few  dainty  possessions.  She  knew  that  he  set 
an  incomprehensible  value  on  the  thing.  Even  Aunt 
Gladys  touched  it  with  extraordinary  reverence.  She 
turned  white  with  fear.  Her  guardian  was  a  far  dif- 
ferent being  from  Aunt  Gladys.  His  wrath  would  be 
terrible.  Herold  was  not  far  wrong  in  likening  John 
Risca,  as  conceived  by  the  child,  to  a  Hebraic  Jehovah. 
His  dread  majesty  overwhelmed  her,  and  she  had  not 


122  STELLA   MARTS 

the  courage  to  face  his  anger.  With  trembling  fingers 
she  stood  the  poor  decapitated  shepherd  on  his  feet 
and  delicately  poised  the  head  on  the  broken  neck. 
She  gazed  at  him  for  a  moment,  his  sauciness  and 
bravery  apparently  unaffected  by  the  accident,  and 
then  she  fled,  and  endured  hours  of  misery. 

The  inevitable  came  to  pass,  John  discovered  the 
breakage,  instituted  an  elementary  court  of  inquiry, 
and  summoned  the  delinquent  into  his  presence. 

"Did  you  break  this,  Unity  ?" 

"No,"  said  Unity. 

The  lie  irritated  him.  He  raised  his  fist  in  a;  denun- 
ciatory gesture.  With  a  cry  of  terror,  like  a  snared 
rabbit's,  she  clapped  her  hands  to  her  face  and  shrank, 
cowering,  to  the  farther  corner  of  the  room. 

"My  God!"  cried  John,  aghast  at  the  realization  of 
what  had  happened.  "Did  you  think  I  was  going  to 
hit  you?" 

He  stood  staring  at  the  little,  undeveloped,  raw- 
boned,  quivering  creature.  Her  assumption  of  his 
right  to  strike  her,  of  his  capability  of  striking  her, 
of  the  certainty  that  he  would  strike  her,  held  him  in 
amazed  horror.  The  phantasmagorical  to  him  was  the 
normal  to  her.  He  had  to  wait  a  few  moments  before 
recovering  command  of  his  faculties.  Then  he  went 
up  to  her. 

"Unity,  my  dear — " 

He  put  his  arm  about  her,  led  her  to  his  writing- 
chair,  and  kept  his  arm  round  her  when  he  sat  down. 

"There,  there,  my  child,"  said  he,  clutching  at  her 
side  nervously  in  his  great  grasp,  "you  misunderstood 
entirely."  In  his  own  horrified  dismay  he  had  forgot- 
ten for  the  moment  her  wickedness.  He  could  find 
no  words  save  incoherences  of  reassurance.  She  made 
no  response,  but  kept  her  hands  before  her  face,  her 
finger-tips  pressed  with  little  livid  edges  of  flesh  into 


STELLA    MARIS  123 

her  forehead.  And  thus  for  a  long  while  they  re- 
mained. 

"I  was  n't  going  to  punish  you  for  breaking  the  fig- 
ure," he  explained  at  last.  "You  did  n't  do  it  on  pur- 
pose, did  you?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"What  made  me  angry  was  your  telling  me  a  lie ; 
but  I  never  dreamed  of  hurting  you.  I  would  sooner 
kill  myself  than  hurt  you,"  he  said,  with  a  shudder. 
Then,  with  an  intuition  that  came  from  the  high  gods, 
he  added,  "I  would  just  as  soon  think  of  hurting  Miss 
Stella,  who  gave  me  the  little  shepherd  you  broke." 

To  John's  amazement, — for  what  does  a  man  know 
of  female  orphans,  or  of  female  anything,  for  the 
matter  of  that? — Unity  tore  herself  away  from  him 
and,  falling  in  a  poor  little  lump  on  the  floor,  burst 
into  a  wild  passion  of  tears  and  sobs.  John,  not  know- 
ing what  else  to  do,  stooped  down  and  patted  her 
shoulders  in  an  aimless  way.  Then  with  a  vague  con- 
sciousness that  she  were  best  alone,  he  went  softly  out 
of  the  room. 

It  was  thus  that,  in  the  unwonted  guise  of  minis- 
tering spirits,  shame  and  remorse  came  to  Unity 
Blake. 

SHE  had  broken  a  sacred  idol.  He  had  not  been  an- 
gry. She  had  told  a  lie,  and  instead  of  punishing  her, 
— of  his  horror-stricken  motives  she  had  no  idea, — 
he  had  held  her  tight  in  kind  arms  and  spoken  softly. 
He  had  not  actually  wept,  but  he  had  been  sorry  at 
her  lie,  even  as  Aunt  Gladys  had  been.  Now  he,  being 
what  to  her  mind  was  a  kind  of  fusion  of  Jah  and 
Zeus  and  Odin, — three  single  deities  rolled  into  one, 
— was  not  a  fool.  Dimly  through  the  mists  of  her 
soul  dawned  the  logical  conclusion:  perhaps  Aunt 
Gladys,  in  her  sorrowful  and  non-avenging  attitude 


124  STELLA    MARIS 

towards  her  mendacities  and  other  turpitudes,  was  not 
a  fool  either. 

The  bewildering  truth  also  presented  itself  that  lies, 
being  unnecessary  as  a  means  of  self-protection,  were 
contemptible.  In  the  same  way  she  realized  that  if 
folks  had  no  intention  of  punishing  her  for  destroying 
their  valuable  property,  even  sacred  gifts  of  fairy- 
princesses,  but,  instead,  smiled  on  her  their  sweet  for- 
giveness, they  must  have  in  them  something  of  the  di- 
vine which  had  hitherto  been  obscured  from  her  vi- 
sion. She  had  proved  to  herself  that  they  could  not 
be  fools;  rather,  then,  they  were  angels.  They  cer- 
tainly could  not  enjoy  the  destruction  of  their  belong- 
ings; therefore  her  clumsiness  must  cause  them  pain. 
Now,  why  should  she  inflict  pain  on  people  who  were 
doing  their  utmost  to  make  her  happy  ?  Why  ? 

She  began  to  ask  herself  questions;  and  when  once 
an  awakening  human  soul  begins  to  do  that,  it  goes  on 
indefinitely.  Some  of  the  simplest  ones  she  propounded 
to  Miss  Lindon,  who  returned  answers  simple  in  es- 
sence, though  perhaps  complex  in  expression ;  some  her 
growing  experience  of  life  enabled  her  to  answer  for 
herself ;  some  of  the  more  difficult  she  reserved  for  her 
rare  talks  with  Herold.  But  although  the  awfulness 
of  John's  majesty  was  mitigated  by  the  investiture  of 
an  archangel's  iridescent  and  merciful  wings,  she  could 
never  go  to  him  with  her  problems.  Never  again  since 
that  memorable  occasion  did  he  put  his  arm  around 
her;  he  held  her  gently  aloof  as  before.  But  he  had 
put  his  arm  around  her  once,  and  the  child's  humility 
dared  not  hope  for  more. 

Thus  in  a  series  of  shocks,  bewildering  flashes  of 
truth,  followed  by  dark  spaces  of  ignorance,  was 
Unity's  development  initiated,  and,  indeed,  continued. 
Her  nature,  deadened  by  the  chill  years,  was  not  re- 
sponsive to  the  little  daily  influences  by  which  char- 


STELLA    MARIS  125 

acter  is  generally  moulded.  Only  the  great  things, 
trivial  in  themselves,  but  great  in  her  little  life — for  to 
an  ant-hill  the  probing  of  a  child's  stick  means  earth- 
quake, convulsion,  and  judgment-day  cataclysm — only 
the  great  things,  definite  and  arresting,  produced  per- 
ceptible change.  But  they  left  their  mark.  She  was 
too  dull  to  learn  much  in  the  ordinary  routine  of  les- 
sons ;  but  once  a-  fact  or  an  idea  could  be  made  to  ap- 
peal to  her  emotions  or  her  imagination,  it  was  there 
for  all  time.  Not  all  the  pains  and  teaching  of  her 
two  protectors,  for  instance,  could  alter  one  inflection 
of  her  harsh  cockney  twang. 

But  one  day  after  luncheon,  Herold  being  present, 
Miss  Lindon  ordered  her  to  recite  "The  Wreck  of  the 
Hesperus,"  which  artless  poem  she  had  learned  unin- 
telligently  by  heart,  at  Miss  Linden's  suggestion,  in 
order  to  give  pleasure  to  her  guardian.  To  give  him 
pleasure  she  would  have  learned  pages  of  the  army  list 
or  worn  tin  tacks  in  her  boots.  After  a  month's  vast 
labour  she  had  accomplished  the  prodigious  task. 

Very  shy,  she  repeated  the  poem  in  the  child's  sing- 
song, and  ended  up  on  the  "reef  of  Norman's  Waow." 

John,  not  having  been  made  a  party  to  the  "sur- 
prise" eagerly  contrived  by  Miss  Lindon,  nodded,  said 
it  was  very  good,  and  commended  Unity  for  a  good 
girl.  Herold  kicked  him  surreptitiously,  and  ap- 
plauded with  much  vigour. 

"By  Jove!"  said  he,  impelled  by  queer  instinct, 
"I  used  to  know  that.  I  wonder  if  I  could  recite  it, 
too." 

He  rose  and  began ;  and  as  he  continued,  his  won- 
derful art  held  the  child  spell-bound.  The  meaningless 
words  resolved  themselves  into  symbols  of  vast  sig- 
nificance. She  saw  the  little  daughter,  her  cheeks  like 
the  dawn  of  day,  a  vision  of  Stellamaris,  and  felt  the 
moonless  dark  of  the  stormy  night  and  the  hissing 


126  STELLA    MARTS 

snow  and  the  stinging  blast,  and  she  shivered  at  the 
awful  sight  of  the  skipper  frozen  at  the  wheel,  and  a 
hush  fell  upon  her  soul  as  the  maiden  prayed,  and  the 
tears  fell  fast  from  her  eyes  as  the  picture  of  the  fish- 
erman finding  the  maiden  fair  lashed  to  the  drifting 
mast  was  flashed  before  her  by  the  actor's  magic. 

"Now,  Unity  dear,  don't  you  wish  you  could  say 
it  like  that?"  Aunt  Gladys  remarked. 

Unity,  scarcely  hearing,  made  perfunctory  answer; 
but  as  soon  as  she  could,  she  fled  to  her  bedroom,  her 
ears  reverberating  with  the  echoes  of  the  beautiful 
voice,  and  her  soul  shaken  with  the  poignant  drama, 
and  crudely  copying  Herold's  gestures  and  intonations, 
recited  the  poem  over  and  over  again. 

The  result  of  this  was  not  a  sudden  passion  for  ro- 
mance or  histrionics,  but  it  was  remarkable  enough. 
It  awoke  her  sense  of  vowel  sounds  and  aspirates. 
Henceforward  she  discriminated  between  "lady"  and 
"lidy,"  between  "no"  and  "naow,"  and  although  she 
never  acquired  a  pure  accent,  her  organs  of  speech  re- 
fusing to  obey  her  will,  she  was  acutely  aware  of  the 
wrong  sounds  that  escaped  from  her  lips. 

As  with  this,  so  with  other  stages  of  development, 
both  in  things  external  and  things  spiritual.  Scales 
had  to  be  torn  from  her  eyes  before  she  saw;  then 
she  saw  with  piercing  vision.  Plugs  had  to  be 
wrenched  from  her  ears  before  she  heard;  then  she 
heard  the  horns  of  Elfland.  Her  heart  had  to  be 
plucked  from  her  bosom  before  she  felt;  then  her 
whole  being  quivered  with  an  undying  emotion. 

So  the  weeks  and  the  months  passed  and  grew  into 
years,  and  Miss  Lindon  said  that  she  was  a  well- 
behaved  and  Christian  child,  and  that  it  was  a  pity  she 
was  so  plain;  and  Risca,  forgetful,  after  a  while,  of 
her  agony  of  tears  and  of  Herold's  angry  diagnosis, 
.retained  his  opinion  that  she  was  just  dull  and  stupid. 


STELLA   MARIS  127 

though  well-meaning,  and,  having  his  head  full  of 
other  things,  took  her  at  last  for  granted,  together 
with  his  Aunt  Gladys,  as  a  normal  feature  in  his  some- 
times irritating,  though  on  the  whole  exceedingly  com- 
fortable, comic-opera  household. 


CHAPTER  X 

ONE  evening  by  the  last  post  John  received  a 
letter  bearing  the  prison  stamp  and  addressed 
to  him  under  the  care  of  the  firm  of  solic- 
itors who  had  defended  his  wife.    It  ran : 

/  am  coming  out  on  Wednesday,  the  thirteenth.  I 
suppose  I  shall  have  somewhere  to  go  to  and  not  be 
expected  to  walk  the  streets. 

Louisa  Anne  Risca. 

That  was  all — neither  ave  nor  vale.  It  was  the  only 
letter  she  had  written.  She  knew  well  enough  that 
the  house  in  Smith  Street  was  being  maintained  and 
that  her  allowance  would  be  resumed  as  soon  as  she 
regained  her  freedom,  having  been  so  informed  by  the 
solicitors,  on  John's  instructions;  but  a  reference  to 
this  explicit  statement  would  have  discounted  the 
snarl.  Prison  had  not  chastened  her. 

John  sat  back  in  his  writing-chair,  the  ignoble  let- 
ter in  front  of  him.  He  made  a  rapid  calculation  of 
dates.  It  was  two  years  and  three  months  since  the 
trial.  She  had  worked  out  three  fourths  of  her  sen- 
tence, the  remaining  fourth  evidently  having  been  re- 
mitted on  account  of  good  conduct,  in  the  ordinary 
course.  Two  years  and  three  months!  He  had 
scarcely  realized  the  swift  flight  of  time.  Of  late  his 
life  had  been  easier.  Distracted  London  had  forgot- 
ten the  past.  He  had  sought  and  found,  at  his  club, 
the  society  of  his  fellow-men.  His  printed  name  no 

128 


STELLA    MARIS  129 

longer  struck  horror  into  a  reader's  soul.  At  times  he 
himself  almost  forgot.  The  woman  had  faded  into  a 
shadow  in  some  land  beyond  the  tomb.  But  now,  a 
new  and  grim  Alcestis,  she  had  come  back  to  upper 
earth.  There  was  nothing  trans-Stygian  about  the  two 
or  three  cutting  lines.  She  was  alive,  luridly  alive, 
and  on  Wednesday,  the  thirteenth,  she  would  be  free, 
a  force  let  loose,  for  good  or  evil,  in  the  pleasant 
places  of  the  world.  At  the  prospect  of  the  prison 
doors  closing  behind  her,  however,  he  felt  great  relief. 
At  any  rate,  that  horror  would  soon  be  over  and  done 
with.  The  future  must  take  care  of  itself. 
Presently  he  wrote : 

Dear  Louisa: 

I  am  unfeignedly  thankful  to  hear  your  news.  I 
shall  be  waiting  for  you  at  the  gate  on  the  morning 
of  the  thirteenth  and  shall  take  you  to  Smith  Street, 
which  you  will  find  quite  ready  to  receive  you. 

Yours, 
John  Risca. 

Then  he  went  out  and  posted  the  letter. 

"I  'm  glad  you  're  going  to  meet  her  yourself  in- 
stead of  sending  a  solicitor's  clerk,"  said  Herold,  when 
they  discussed  the  matter  next  day. 

"I  'm  not  one  to  shirk  disagreeable  things,"  replied 
John. 

"It  may  touch  some  human  chord  in  her." 

"I  never  thought  of  that,"  said  John. 

"Well,  think  of  it.  Think  of  it  as  much  as  you 
can." 

"  'You  may  as  well  use  question  with  the  wolf,' " 
growled  John. 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Herold.  "Anyhow,  try 
kindness." 


130  STELLA   MARIS 

"Of  course  I  'm  going  to  do  so,"  said  John,  with 
the  impatience  he  usually  manifested  when  accepting 
a  new  point  of  view  from  Herold.  "You  don't  sup- 
pose I  'm  going  to  stand  outside  with  a  club!" 

ON  the  appointed  day  he  waited,  with  a  four-wheeled 
cab,  by  the  prison  gate.  The  early  morning  sunshine 
of  midsummer  flooded  the  world  with  pale  glory,  its 
magic  even  softening  the  grim,  forbidding  walls.  A 
light  southwest  wind  brought  the  pure  scents  of  the 
down  from  many  a  sleeping  garden  and  woodland 
far  away.  The  quiet  earth  sang  its  innocence,  for 
wickedness  was  not  yet  abroad  to  scream  down  the 
song.  Even  John  Risca,  anti-sentimentalist,  was 
stirred.  What  sweeter  welcome,  what  gladder  mes- 
sage of  hope,  could  greet  one  issuing  into  the  upper 
air  from  the  gloomy  depths  of  Hades?  How  could 
such  a  one  help  catching  at  her  breath  for  joy? 

The  gate  swung  open,  casting  a  shadow  in  the  small 
yard  beyond,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  shadow  a  black, 
unjoyous  figure  stood  for  a  moment  irresolute.  Then 
she  slowly  came  out  into  sunshine  and  freedom.  She 
was  ashen-coloured,  thin-lipped,  and  not  a  gleam  of 
pleasure  lit  her  eyes  as  they  rested  with  hard  re- 
morselessness  on  the  man  who  advanced  with  out- 
stretched hand  to  meet  her.  Of  the  hand  she  took  no 
notice. 

"Is  this  my  cab?" 

"Yes,"  said  John. 

She  entered.  He  followed,  giving  the  address  to 
the  driver.  She  sat  looking  neither  to  left  nor  right, 
staring  stubbornly  in  front  of  her.  The  sunshine  and 
the  scent  of  summer  gardens  far  away  failed  to  bring 
their  message.  Though  it  was  high  summer,  she  wore 
the  heavy  coat  which  she  had  worn  in  the  wintry 
weather  at  the  time  of  her  trial. 


STELLA    MARIS  131 

"I  am  very  glad  indeed  to  see  you,  Louisa,"  said 
John. 

"  'Unf eignedly  thankful !' '  She  chewed  the  liter- 
ary phrase  and  spat  it  out  venomously.  "You — liar!" 

John  winced  at  the  abominable  word;  but  he  spoke 
softly. 

"You  can't  suppose  it  has  been  happiness  for  me  to 
think  of  you  in  there." 

"What  does  it  matter  to  me?  What  the  hell  are 
you  to  me,  anyhow?" 

"I  'm  your  husband  in  the  eyes  of  the  law,"  said 
John,  "and  I  once  cared  for  you." 

"Oh,  stow  that!" 

"I  will.  But  I  want  you  to  believe  that  I  am  ut- 
terly thankful  that  this — this  unhappy  chapter  is 
closed — " 

She  interrupted  him  with  a  swift  and  vicious  glance. 

"  'Unhappy  chapter !'  Get  off  it !  You  make  me 
sick.  Talk  English,  if  you  must  talk." 

"Very  well,"  said  he.  "I  'm  glad  my  legal  wife 
is  not  in  gaol.  I  want  her  to  believe  that  I  '11  do  my 
best  to  forget  it ;  also,  that,  as  far  as  my  means  allow, 
she  will  have  comfort  and  opportunity  to  try  to  forget 
it,  too." 

Not  a  muscle  of  her  drawn  face  relaxed. 

"I  'm  not  going  to  have  you  or  any  one  else  fooling 
round  where  I  live,"  she  said.  "I  'm  not  going  to  be 
preached  to  or  converted.  I  've  had  enough  of  it 
where  I  've  come  from.  As  for  you,  I  hate  you.  I  've 
always  hated  you,  and  if  you  have  any  decency,  you  '11 
never  let  me  see  your  face  again." 

"I  won't,"  said  John,  shortly,  and  with  this  the  edi- 
fying conversation  came  to  an  end. 

The  cab  lumbered  through  the  sunny  thoroughfares 
of  the  great  city,  now  busy  with  folks  afoot,  in  trams 
and  omnibuses,  going  forth  to  their  labour ;  and  John, 


i32  STELLA    MARTS 

looking  out  of  the  window,  fancied  they  were  all 
touched  by  the  glamour  of  the  summer  morning. 
Every  human  soul  save  the  woman  beside  him  seemed 
glad  to  be  alive.  She  sat  rigid,  apart  from  him — as 
physically  apart  as  the  seat  would  allow,  and  apart 
from  the  whole  smiling  world.  She  had  her  being  in 
terrible  isolation,  hate  incarnate.  When  by  any  chance 
their  eyes  happened  to  meet,  he  turned  his  aside 
swiftly  and  shivered  with  unconquerable  repulsion. 

When  the  cab  drew  up  at  the  house  in  Smith  Street, 
the  door  was  opened,  and  a  pleasant-faced  woman 
and  a  man  stood  smiling  in  the  passage.  Mrs.  Risca 
brushed  past  them  into  the  dining-room,  bright  with 
daintily  laid  breakfast  table  and  many  flowers.  The 
latter,  John,  at  Herold's  suggestion,  had  sent  in  the 
evening  before. 

"You  see,"  said  John,  entering,  "we  've  tried  to 
prepare  for  you." 

She  deigned  no  glance,  but  slammed  the  door. 

"Who  are  those  people?" 

"A  married  couple  whom  I  have  engaged  to  live 
here.  The  woman,  Mrs.  Bence,  will  do  for  you.  The 
man  goes  out  to  his  work  during  the  day." 

"Warder  and  wardress,  eh?  They  can  jolly  well 
clear  out.  I  'm  not  going  to  have  'em." 

Then  John's  patience  broke.  He  brought  his  fist 
down  on  the  table  with  a  crash. 

"By  heavens,"  he  cried,  "you  shall  have  whomever 
I  put  here.  You  Ve  behaved  yourself  for  two  years, 
and  you  're  going  on  behaving  yourself."  He  flung 
open  the  door.  "Mrs.  Bence,  help  Mrs.  Risca  off  with 
her  coat  and  bring  in  her  breakfast." 

Cowed,  she  submitted  with  malevolent  meekness. 
Prison  discipline  does  not  foster  the  heroic  qualities. 
Mrs.  Bence  took  hat  and  coat  and  disappeared. 

"Sit  down  at  the  table." 


STELLA    MARIS  133 

She  obeyed.    He  laid  some  money  beside  her. 

"This  is  your  allowance.  On  the  thirteenth  of  every 
month  you  will  receive  the  same  amount  from  my 
bankers.  If  you  prefer,  after  a  time,  to  live  in  the 
country,  we  may  be  able  to  arrange  it.  In  the  mean- 
while you  must  stay  here." 

She  neither  touched  the  coins  nor  thanked  him. 
There  was  a  silence  hard  and  deadly.  John  stood  in 
the  sunshine  of  the  window,  bending  on  her  his  heavy 
brows.  Now  and  then  she  glanced  at  him  furtively 
from  beneath  lowered  eyelids,  like  a  beast  subdued,  but 
not  tamed.  A  dominant  will  was  all  that  could  con- 
trol her  now.  He  thanked  an  unusually  helpful  Prov- 
idence that  had  sent  him  the  Bences  in  the  very  nick 
of  his  emergency.  Before  marriage,  Mrs.  Bence  had 
been  under-attendant  at  a  county  lunatic  asylum,  and 
John  had  heard  of  her  through  Wybrow,  the  medical 
superintendent,  a  club  friend,  who  had  helped  him  be- 
fore when  the  defense  had  set  up  the  plea  of  insanity, 
and  whom,  with  an  idea  of  trained  service  in  his  head, 
he  had  again  consulted.  No  more  torturing  of 
Unitys,  if  he  could  help  it.  Wybrow  spoke  highly  of 
Mrs.  Bence  and  deplored  the  ruin  of  a  great  career  as 
a  controller  of  she-devils ;  but  as  a  cat  will  after  kind, 
so  must  she  after  an  honest  but  impecunious  plumber. 
John  had  sought  her  and  come  to  terms  at  once.  For 
once  in  their  courses,  he  thought  grimly,  the  stars 
were  not  fighting  against  him.  He  had  not  told  Her- 
old  of  this  arrangement.  Herold  had  counselled  kind- 
ness. The  flowers,  for  instance,  would  be  sure  to 
make  their  innocent  appeal.  Tears  could  not  fail  to 
fill  her  eyes.  Tears  of  sentiment  in  those  eyes !  Lit- 
tle Herold  knew  of  the  world  of  realities  with  which 
he  was  at  death-grips. 

Presently  Mrs.  Bence  came  in  with  coffee,  hot  rolls, 
a  dish  of  bacon  and  eggs.  The  fragrant  smell  awak- 


i34  STELLA    MARIS 

ened  the  animal  instinct  of  the  woman  at  the  table. 
She  raised  her  head  and  followed  the  descent  of  dish 
and  plate.  Then  a  queer  noise  broke  from  her  throat, 
and  she  fell  upon  the  food.  John  left  her. 

Mrs.  Bence  followed  him  into  the  passage  and 
opened  the  front  door. 

"I  Ve  been  used  to  it,  sir." 

"She  must  never  guess  that,"  said  he. 

He  walked  homeward  through  the  parks,  breathing 
in  great  gulps  of  the  sweet  morning  air.  He  felt  that 
he  had  been  in  contact  with  something  unclean.  Not 
only  his  soul,  but  his  very  body,  craved  purification. 
In  the  woman  he  had  left  he  had  found  no  remorse, 
no  repentance,  no  sensibility  to  any  human  touch. 
Prison  had  broken  her  courage;  but  in  its  sunless  at- 
mosphere of  the  underground,  all  the  fungoid  growths 
of  her  nature  had  flourished  in  mildewed  exuberance. 
He  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  her,  a  poisonous  thing, 
loathsome  in  its  abnormality.  As  some  women  dwell 
in  an  aura  of  sweet  graciousness,  so  dwelt  she  in  me- 
phitic  fumes  of  devildom.  Implacable  hatred,  deadly 
venom,  relentless  vengeance,  were  the  constituents  of 
her  soul.  Relentless  vengeance —  He  sat  for  a  mo- 
ment on  a  bench  in  Hyde  Park,  feeling  chilled  to  the 
bone,  although  the  perspiration  beaded  on  his  fore- 
head. She  would  not  strike  him,  of  that  he  was  oddly 
assured.  Her  way  would  be  to  strike  at  him  through 
those  near  and  dear  to  him.  In  the  full  sunshine  of 
gay  midsummer,  with  the  trees  waving  their  green 
and  lusty  bravery  over  his  head,  and  the  flower-beds 
rioting  in  the  joy  of  the  morning,  he  was  shaken  by 
an  unreasoning  nightmare  terror.  He  saw  the  woman 
creep  with  snaky  movements  into  the  sea-chamber 
at  Southcliff,  and  a  pair  of  starry  eyes  become  wells 
of  awful  horror  as  the  murderous  thing  approached 
the  bed.  And  he  was  held  rigid  by  dream  paralysis. 


STELLA   MARIS  135 

After  a  second  or  two — it  had  seemed  many  minutes 
of  agony — he  sprang  to  his  feet  with  what  he  thought 
was  a  great  cry,  and  looked  dazedly  about  him.  A 
nurse-maid,  undistracted  from  her  novelette,  and 
wheeling  a  perambulator  in  which  reposed  an  indiffer- 
ent infant,  passed  him  by.  He  shook  himself  like  a 
great,  rough  dog,  and  went  his  way,  ashamed  of  his 
fears.  It  was  a  practical  world,  he  told  himself,  and 
he  was  a  match  for  any  mad-woman. 

Unity  was  watering  flowers  in  the  tiny  patch  of 
front  garden  where  he  swung  through  the  iron- gate. 
She  had  grown  a  little  during  the  last  two  years,  but 
still  was  undeveloped ;  a  healthier  colour  had  come  into 
her  cheeks  and  a  more  confident  expression  into  her 
common,  snub-nosed  face.  Her  movements  were  less 
awkward,  and  as  she  was  eighteen,  she  wore  her  hair 
done  up  with  a  comb  and  the  long  skirts  appropriate  to 
her  age. 

She  set  down  her  watering-pot  and  stood  at  a  kind 
of  absurd  attention,  her  usual  attitude  in  the  presence 
of  John. 

"Please,  guardian,"  she  said, — she  could  never  rid 
herself  of  the  school-child's  exordium, — "have  you  had 
your  breakfast?" 

"No,"  said  John,  realizing  for  the  first  time  that 
emptiness  of  stomach  may  have  had  something  to  do 
with  his  momentary  faintness  in  the  park. 

"Aunt  Gladys  has  been  in  such  a  state,"  said  Unity. 
"She  has  made  Phoebe  cook  three  breakfasts  already, 
and  each  has  been  spoiled  by  being  kept  in  the  oven, 
and  I  think  now  she  is  cooking  the  fourth." 

In  this  announcement  rang  none  of  the  mischievous 
mirth  of  eighteen  over  an  elder's  harmless  foibles. 
Humour,  which  had  undoubtedly  presided  at  her  birth, 
for  like  many  another  glory-trailing  babe,  she  had 
crowed  with  glee  at  the  haphazard  coupling  of  which 


136  STELLA    MARIS 

she  was  the  result,  had  fled  for  good  from  her  environ- 
ment ever  since  the  day  when,  at  a  very  tender  age,  she 
had  seen  her  mother  knocked  insensible  by  a  drunken 
husband  and  had  screamed  single-mindedly  for  unob- 
tainable nourishment.  She  had  no  sense  of  glorious 
futility,  of  the  incongruous  relativity  of  facts.  Each 
fact  was  absolute.  Three  breakfasts  had  been  cooked 
and  spoiled.  The  fourth  was  in  the  cooking.  She  nar- 
rated simply  what  had  taken  place. 

"Run  and  tell  Phcebe  I  'm  hungry  enough  to  eat  all 
four,"  said  John. 

They  entered  the  house.  Unity  hurried  off  on  her 
errand.  The  meal  was  soon  served.  Miss  Lindon, 
with  many  inquiries  as  to  the  reason  for  his  early 
start,  which  he  answered  with  gruff  evasiveness,  hov- 
ered about  him  as  he  ate,  watching  him  in  loving  won- 
der. His  big  frame  needed  much  nourishment,  and 
now  sheer  hunger  was  being  satisfied.  To  her  ac- 
quaintance she  spoke  of  his  appetite  with  as  much 
pride  as  of  his  literary  achievements.  It  was  Unity, 
however,  who  took  charge  of  the  practical  service, 
removed  his  plates  and  poured  out  his  tea,  silent,  sub- 
missive, and  yet  with  a  subtle  air  of  protection.  There 
were  certain  offices  she  would  not  allow  Aunt  Gladys 
or  even  Phcebe  to  perform  for  her  guardian.  She  was 
jealous,  for  instance,  like  a  dog,  of  any  one  touching 
the  master's  clothes.  This  morning,  when  Miss  Lin- 
don absent-mindedly  grasped  the  handle  of  the  teapot, 
the  faintest  gleam  of  anger  appeared  in  her  eyes,  and 
her  lips  grew  instinctively  tense,  and  with  a  quick,  au- 
thoritative gesture  she  unloosed  the  fat,  helpless  fin- 
gers and  took  possession  of  the  sacred  vessel.  John 
liked  her  to  wait  upon  him.  She  was  deft  and  noise- 
less; she  anticipated  his  wants  in  an  odd,  instinctive 
way  and  seldom  made  suggestions.  Now,  of  sugges- 
tions his  aunt  was  a  living  fount.  They  poured  from 


STELLA    MARIS  137 

her  all  day  long.  He  had  a  vague  consciousness  that 
Unity,  by  tactful  interposition,  dammed  the  flood,  so 
that  he  could  go  on  his  way  undrenched.  For  this  he 
felt  grateful,  especially  this  morning  when  his  nerves 
were  on  edge.  Yet  this  morning  he  felt  grateful  also 
to  Miss  Lindon,  and  suffered  her  disconnected  minis- 
trations kindly.  To-day  the  queer  home  that  he  had 
made  assumed  a  new  significance. 

When  Miss  Lindon  fluttered  out  of  the  room,  bound 
on  a  suddenly  remembered  duty — fresh  groundsel  for 
Dickie — John  looked  up  from  the  newspaper  which 
Unity  had  silently  folded  and  laid  beside  him. 

"Come  here,  my  child,"  he  said,  after  a  few  mo- 
ments' thought. 

She  approached  and  stood  dutifully  by  his  chair. 

"Unity,  I  don't  think  it  right  for  you  to  remain  in 
ignorance  of  something  that  has  happened.  I  don't 
see  how  it  can  really  affect  you,  but  it  's  better  that 
you  should  learn  it  from  me  than  from  anybody  else. 
Do  you  remember — "  he  paused — "that  woman?" 

It  was  the  first  reference  he  had  ever  made  to  her. 
Unity  drew  a  quick,  sharp  breath. 

"Yes,  guardian." 

"She  was  let  out  of  prison  this  morning." 

She  kept  her  eyes  full  on  him,  and  for  a  while 
neither  spoke. 

"I  don't  care,"  she  said  at  last. 

"I  thought  it  might  cause  you  some  anxiety." 

"What  have  I  to  be  afraid  of  when  I  've  got  you?" 
she  asked  simply. 

John  twisted  round  in  his  chair  and  reached  out  his 
hand — a  rare  demonstration  of  affection — and  took 
hers. 

"It  's  to  assure  you,  my  dear,  that  you  've  nothing 
to  fear  that  I  've  told  you." 

"She  can't  hurt  me"  said  Unity. 


i3 8  STELLA    MARIS 

"By  heaven,  she  sha'n't!"  he  cried,  unconsciously 
wrenching  her  arm  so  that  he  caused  her  considerable 
pain,  which  she  bore  without  the  flicker  of  an  eyelid. 
"You  're  a  fine,  brave  girl,  Unity,  and  I  'm  proud  of 
you.  And  you  're  a  good  girl,  too.  I  hope  you  're 
happy  here;  are  you?" 

"Happy?"  Her  voice  quavered  on  the  word.  Her 
mouth  twitched,  and  the  tears  started  from  her  eyes. 
He  smiled  on  her,  one  of  his  rare  smiles,  known  to  few 
besides  Stellamaris,  which  lit  up  his  heavy  features, 
and  revealed  a  guardian  far  different  from  the  inac- 
cessible Olympian. 

"Yes,  my  dear,  I  hope  so.  I  want  you  to  be  happy 
all  your  life  long." 

She  uttered  a  little  sobbing  laugh  and  fell  crouching 
to  his  feet,  still  clinging  to  his  hand,  which  she  rubbed 
against  her  cheek.  How  could  she  tell  him  otherwise  ? 

"I  think  you  are,"  said  John. 

"I  've  just  remembered  I  put  the  groundsel — "  be- 
gan Miss  Lindon,  coming  into  the  room.  Then  she 
stopped,  petrified  at  the  unusual  spectacle. 

John  laughed  rather  foolishly,  and  Unity,  flushing 
scarlet,  rushed  out. 

"I  was  only  asking  her  whether  we  were  treating 
her  nicely,"  said  John,  rising  and  stretching  his  loose 
limbs. 

"What  a  question  to  ask  the  child !" 

"Well,  she  answered  it  like  that,  you  see,"  said 
John. 

"But  what  a  way  to  answer  a  simple  question !  She 
forgets  sometimes  that  she  is  a  young  lady  of  eigh- 
teen, an  age  when  manners  ought  to  be  formed.  But 
manners,"  she  continued,  hunting  about  the  room,  "are 
not  what  they  were  when  I  was  young.  I  declare,  I 
sometimes  see  young  women  in  the  streets  with  wool- 
len caps  and  hockey-sticks — " 


STELLA    MARIS  139 

John  took  a  salad-bowl  from  the  mantelpiece.  "Is 
that  Dickie's  groundsel  ?" 

"Oh,  how  clever  of  you!  Where  did  you  find  it? 
Dickie  has  been  so  angry.  He's  just  like  a  man  when 
his  dinner  's  late.  I  don't  mean  you.  You  're  a  per- 
fect saint,  dear." 

"Which  reminds  me,"  .  said  John,  with  a  laugh, 
"that  I  've  mislaid  my  halo  and  I  must  go  and  find  it." 

With  an  exultant  sense  of  comfort  he  went  into  his 
library.  The  women-folk  of  his  household  had  never 
before  seemed  so  near  to  him,  so  dependent  on  him, 
such  organic  factors  of  his  life.  He  stood  for  a  long- 
time on  his  hearth-rug,  scowling  terribly,  with  the  air 
of  a  wild  beast  standing  at  the  entrance  to  its  lair  in 
defiant  defence  of  the  female  and  whelps  within. 


CHAPTER   XI 

JOHN   RISCA,  at  thirty-four,   with  a  ward  of 
twenty,  and  with  the  normal  hope  of  a  man's 
life  withered  at  the  root,  regarded  himself  as 
an  elderly  man.     He  looked  older  than  his  years. 
Ragged  streaks  of  gray  appeared  in  his  black  hair, 
and  the  lines  deepened  on  his  heavy  brow.    There  are 
some  men  who,  no  matter  what  their  circumstances 
may  be,  never  take  themselves  happily.    To  do  so  is  a 
gift;  and  it  was  denied  to  John  Risca. 

Two  years  had  passed  since  his  wife's  release.  Dur- 
ing the  years  of  their  separation  before  her  imprison- 
ment, she  had  counted  for  little  in  his  thoughts  save 
as  a  gate  barring  the  way  to  happiness.  She  had 
never  molested  him,  never  stood  in  the  way  of  his 
ordinary  life.  In  her  prison  she  had  begun  by  being 
a  horror  haunting  his  dreams;  gradually  she  had 
dwindled  into  a  kind  of  paralyzed  force,  had  faded 
into  a  shadow  incapable  of  action.  But  since  her  re- 
turn to  the  living  world  he  had  felt  her  hatred  as  an 
influence,  vague,  but  active,  let  loose  upon  the  earth. 
He  dreaded  contact  with  her,  however  indirect,  and 
through  whatever  agency;  but  contact  was  inevitable. 
Whereas  formerly  she  had  been  content  to  live  accord- 
ing to  the  terms  of  their  agreement  on  separation, 
now  she  made  demands.  One  of  them,  however,  he 
considered  reasonable.  In  Smith  Street,  the  scene  of 
her  misdeeds,  she  led  the  life  of  a  pariah  dog.  She 
was  friendless.  Her  own  relatives  had  cast  her  off. 

140 


STELLA    MARIS  141 

The  tradespeople  round  about  supplied  her  reluctantly 
with  necessaries  and  refused  to  exchange  words  with 
her  when  she  entered  their  shops.  Children  hooted 
her  in  the  streets.  John,  foreseeing  unpleasantness, 
had  offered  to  find  her  a  home  in  the  country.  But 
this,  being  town-bred,  she  had  declined.  Let  her 
change  her  name,  she  urged,  and  seek  other  London 
quarters.  He  agreed.  She  adopted  the  name  of 
Rawlings  and  moved  to  a  flat  off  the  Fulham  Road. 
To  the  suggestion  of  a  different  part  of  London  alto- 
gether she  turned  a  deaf  ear.  She  had  lived  in  that 
neighbourhood  all  her  days  and  would  feel  lost  else- 
where. The  common  Londoner  has  almost  the  local 
instinct  of  a  villager.  She  would  also,  she  said,  be 
near  her  mother,  who  still  let  lodgings  in  Brompton. 

"If  your  mother  refuses  to  see  you,"  said  John, 
when  they  were  discussing  the  matter,  "I  see  no  rea- 
son for  your  being  near  her." 

She  counselled  him,  in  her  vernacular,  to  mind  his 
own  business. 

"So  long  as  I  don't  come  and  live  next  to  you,  what 
have  you  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"I  certainly  am  not  called  upon  to  protect  your 
mother,"  said  he.  He  smiled  grimly,  remembering 
the  hard-bitten  veteran  of  a  thousand  rights  with  im- 
pecunious and  recalcitrant  lodgers.  She  could  very 
well  look  after  herself. 

The  Bences,  much  against  her  will,  though  she 
dared  not  openly  rebel,  accompanied  her  to  the  flat. 
Her  installation  was  expensive.  He  paid  readily 
enough.  But  then  came  demands  for  money,  insidious 
enough  at  first  for  his  compliance,  then  monstrous, 
vindictive.  She  incurred  reckless  debts;  not  those  of 
a  woman  who  desires  to  make  a  show  in  the  world  by 
covering  herself  with  costly  dresses  and  furs  and 
jewels  or  by  dashing  about  in  expensive  equipages. 


142  STELLA    MARIS 

That  side  of  life  was  unfamiliar  to  her,  and  class  in- 
stinct quenched  the  imagination  to  crave  it.  She  had 
been  bred  to  regard  cabs  as  luxuries  of  the  idle  rich, 
and  it  never  occurred  to  her  to  travel  in  London  other- 
wise than  by  omnibus  or  rail.  Her  wilful  extrava- 
gance was  of  a  different  nature.  She  ran  up  bills  with 
the  petty  tradesmen  of  the  neighbourhood  for  articles 
for  which  she  had  no  use ;  for  flowers  which  she  de- 
liberately threw  into  the  dust-bin;  for  ready-made 
raiment  which  she  never  wore, — jackets  at  three 
pounds,  ten  and  six,  and  hats  at  ten  shillings, — cheap 
jewelry,  watches,  and  trinkets  which  she  stored  away 
in  boxes.  There  was  a  gaudy  set  of  furniture  with 
which  she  bought  a  kind  of  reconciliation  with  her 
mother.  When  county-court  summonses  came  in,  she 
demanded  money  from  John.  When  he  refused,  she 
posted  him  the  summonses. 

Meanwhile  he  found  that  she  had  struck  up  ac- 
quaintance with  some  helter-skelter,  though  respect- 
able, folks  in  the  flat  below.  The  discovery  pleased 
him.  It  is  good  for  no  human  being,  virtuous  or  de- 
praved, to  sit  from  month's  end  to  month's  end  in 
stark  loneliness.  She  forced  him  to  the  threat  of  re- 
vealing her  identity  to  her  new  friends  if  she  did  not 
mend  her  ways.  She  mended  them;  but  he  felt  his 
hands  soiled  by  the  ignoble  weapons  with  which  he 
had  to  fight. 

After  that  she  was  quiet  for  months.  Then  one 
rainy  afternoon,  as  he  was  walking  downward  with 
bent  head,  he  ran  into  her  in  Maida  Vale,  the  broad 
thoroughfare  that  merges  into  Kilburn.  She  started 
back  with  a  quick  gasp  of  fear. 

"What  are  you  doing  in  this  part  of  London?"  he 
asked  angrily. 

She  plucked  up  courage.  "I  'm  free  to  walk  where 
I  like,  and  just  you  jolly  well  don't  try  to  stop  me." 

"You  were  going  to  my  house." 


STELLA   MARIS  143 

"I  was  n't.  But  supposing  I  was.  What  have  you 
got  to  hide  from  me?  My  successor?  Some  little 
tuppenny-ha'penny  piece  of  damaged  goods  you  Ve 
picked  up  cheap  ?  Think  I  want  to  see  her  ?  What  do 
you  suppose  I  care  ?  Just  let  me  pass." 

He  thrust  aside  the  wet  umbrella  which  she  pushed 
rudely  into  his  face. 

"First  tell  me  what  you  are  doing  here.  Fulham 
people  don't  come  to  Maida  Vale  just  to  take  a  walk 
in  the  rain." 

"I  was  going  to  see  some  friends,"  she  replied 
sulkily. 

A  motor-omnibus  came  surging  down  toward  them. 
At  his  hail  it  stopped. 

"Get  into  that  at  once,  or  it  will  be  the  worse  for 
you." 

He  took  her  arm  in  his  powerful  grip  and  dragged 
her  to  the  curb. 

"You  bullying  brute!"  she  hissed  through  her  thin 
lips. 

But  she  entered  the  'bus.  John  watched  it  until  it 
whizzed  into  space,  and  then  retracing  his  steps,  he 
went  home  and  mounted  guard  by  the  window  of  his 
aunt's  gimcrack  drawing-room,  to  the  huge  delight 
of  its  unsuspecting  mistress.  But  his  wife  did  not 
double  back,  as  he  anticipated;  nor  did  he  see  her 
again  in  the  neighbourhood. 

Thenceforward,  save  for  irritating  pin-pricks  re- 
minding him  of  her  existence,  such  as  futile  revolts 
against  the  supervision  of  the  Bences  and  occasional 
demands  for  money,  she  ceased  to  worry  him.  But 
since  the  day  when  he  caught  her  about  to  spy  on  his 
home-life,  her  shadow,  like  that  of  some  obscene  bird, 
hovered  over  him  perpetually.  What  she  had  tried  to 
do  then  she  might  have  already  done,  she  might  do 
in  the  future.  The  horrible  sense  of  insecurity  op- 


144  STELLA    MARIS 

pressed  him :  it  is  that  which  ages  a  man  who  cannot 
take  himself  happily. 

Otherwise  the  two  years  had  passed  with  no  great 
stir.  The  recurrence  of  seasons  alone  surprised  him 
now  and  then  into  a  realization  of  the  flight  of  time. 
He  had  succeeded  to  the  editorship  of  the  weekly  re- 
view of  which  he  had  been  assistant  editor;  he  had 
published  a  little  book  on  the  "Casual  Ward  of  Work- 
houses," a  despised  hash  of  journalistic  articles  which 
had  brought  him  considerable  recognition ;  leader  writ- 
ers had  quoted  him  flatteringly,  and  his  publishers 
clamoured  for  another  book  on  a  cognate  subject ;  the 
President  of  the  Local  Government  Board  had  invited 
him  to  a  discussion  of  the  matter,  with  a  view  to  pos- 
sible legislation ;  honours  fell  thick  upon  him ;  but,  if  it 
had  been  a  shower  of  frogs,  his  disgust  could  not 
have  been  greater.  For  about  the  same  time  he  had 
published  a  chunky,  doughy  novel  destined  to  set  the 
world  aflame,  which  sold  about  a  couple  of  hundred 
copies.  He  had  cursed  all  things  cursable  and  uncurs- 
able  without  in  any  way  affecting  the  heartless  rhythm 
of  life.  The  world  went  on  serenely,  and  in  his  glum 
fashion  he  found  himself  going  on  with  the  world. 

Unity  mended  his  socks  and  poured  out  his  tea  day 
after  day,  unchanging  in  her  dull  and  common  scrag- 
giness.  Neither  fine  clothes,  nor  jewels,  nor  Aunt 
Gladys's  maxims  could  turn  her  into  a  young  lady. 
Miss  Lindon  sighed,  Unity's  inability  to  purr  genteelly 
at  tea-parties,  the  breath  of  female  autumn's  being, 
was  the  main  sorrow  in  the  mild  lady's  heart.  She 
used  to  dream  of  the  swelling  pride  with  which  she 
might  have  listened  to  Unity  playing  the  "Liederohne 
Worte"  or  Stephen  Heller  or  "The  Brook"  (such  a 
pretty  piece!),  before  the  ladies  purring  on  the  gim- 
crack  chairs.  But  the  dream  was  poignantly  vain. 
She  had  striven  with  vast  goodness  to  teach  Unity  to 


STELLA    MARTS  145 

play  the  piano,  and  the  girl  had  honestly  tried  to 
learn ;  but  as  her  brain  could  not  master  the  mystery  of 
the  various  keys,  and  as  her  ear  was  not  acute  enough 
to  enable  her  to  sing  "Sun  of  my  soul,  thou  Saviour 
dear,"  in  tune,  the  study  of  music  had  to  be  struck  out 
of  her  curriculum.  And  she  could  not  talk  to  the 
faded  gentlewomen  who  came  to  the  house,  and  to 
whose  houses  Miss  Lindon  took  her.  The  ordeal  al- 
ways made  her  perspire,  and  little  beads  settled  on  her 
snub  nose,  and  she  knew  it  was  not  ladylike.  Such  a 
thing,  said  Miss  Lindon,  ought  never  to  happen.  But 
it  did,  in  defiance  of  all  the  laws  of  gentility.  So  Miss 
Lindon  sighed.  But  none  of  these  things  wrecked  the 
peace  of  the  home.  Uneventful  serenity  reigned  in  the 
little  house  at  Kilburn. 

Walter  Herold  went  on  playing  his  exquisite  minia- 
tures of  parts,  and,  in  theatrical  terminology,  he  be- 
came very  expensive,  and  prospered  exceedingly  in  his 
profession;  his  relations  with  John  remained  un- 
altered; Miss  Lindon  loved  him,  first  because  he  was 
John's  intimate,  secondly  (and  here  was  a  reason 
which  she  did  not  avow)  because  he  had  the  gift  of 
making  her  feel  that,  despite  seven  and  fifty  years  of 
spinsterhood,  she  was  still  the  most  fascinating  of  her 
sex,  and  thirdly  because  he  reminded  her  of  poor  Cap- 
tain Featherstone,  killed  in  the  Zulu  War,  who  was 
such  a  very  clever  amateur  conjurer,  and  could  act 
charades  in  a  way  that  would  make  you  die  of  laugh- 
ing. And  Unity  came  to  him  with  her  problems ;  and, 
as  they  both  loved  John  Risca  and  Stellamaris,  of 
whom  (a  thing  undreamed  of  by  John,  for  he  rarely 
mentioned  the  fairy  princess's  name  to  Unity)  they 
talked  inordinately,  the  bond  between  them  was 
strengthened  by  links  ever  freshly  forged.  And  fin- 
ally, in  the  sea-chamber  at  Southcliff,  Herold  main- 
tained his  rank  of  Great  High  Favourite,  and 


146  STELLA    MARIS 

companioned  his  august  mistress  on  her  fairy  vaga- 
bondage along  the  roads  that  led  no  whither  in  the 
Land  That  Never  Was. 

And  Stellamaris  herself?  She  was  twenty.  John, 
still  Great  High  Belovedest,  still  finding  his  perfect 
rest  from  care,  his  enchanted  haven,  in  the  great, 
wide-windowed  room  looking  out  to  sea,  wondered  at 
the  commonplace  fact.  Not  long  ago,  it  seemed  to 
him,  she  had  been  but  the  fragile  wraith  of  a  child, 
with  arms  that  you  might  pass  through  a  signet-ring, 
and  hands  no  bigger  than  an  acacia-leaf.  He  had  sat 
but  yesterday  full  on  the  bed,  without  danger  to  the 
tiny  feet  which  were  far  away  from  him.  And  now 
the  little  child  had  passed  into  the  woman.  Thanks 
to  devotion,  the  world's  learning,  the  resources  of  the 
civilized  earth,  the  life-giving  air  of  the  sea,  her 
malady  had  scarcely  interfered  with  bodily  growth. 
And  the  child's  beauty  had  not  been  fleeting.  It  had 
remained,  and  matured  into  that  of  the  woman.  Un- 
consciously John  had  drifted  away  from  childish 
things  in  his  long  and  precious  talks  with  her. 

One  day  she  rebuked  him. 

"Great  High  Belovedest,"  she  said,  "you  have  n't 
told  me  of  the  palace  and  Lilias  and  Niphetos  for 
months  and  months.  Or  is  it  years?*' 

He  laughed.  "It  must  be  years.  You  don't  realize 
that  you  're  grown  up." 

"So  every  one  says.  I  often  wonder  what  it  really 
means." 

"You  've  developed,"  said  he. 

"How?"  she  persisted. 

"You  've  got  longer  and  broader  and — " 

She  laughed  to  hide  a  swift,  pink  confusion.  "I 
know  that,  you  silly  dear.  The  doctor  's  always  tak- 
ing measurements  of  me  and  making  funny  calcula- 
tions— cubing  out  the  contents,  as  Mr.  Wratislaw  used 


STELLA    MARIS  147 

to  say.  I  know  I  'm  enormous.  That  's  an  external 
matter  of  yards  and  feet," — she  spoke  as  if  her  pro- 
portions were  Brobdingnagian, — "but  I  'm  referring 
to  inner  things.  How  am  I  different,  in  myself,  from 
what  I  was  four  years  ago?" 

John  scratched  a  somewhat  puzzled  head.  How 
could  he  explain  to  her  that  of  which  he  himself  was 
not  quite  certain?  In  the  normal  case  the  phenome- 
non of  manhood  or  womanhood,  apart  from  the 
physical  side, — allowing  for  the  moment  that  the  phys- 
ical side  can  be  set  apart, — is  a  matter  of  a  wider 
experience  of  life,  of  a  million  observations  uncon- 
sciously correlated  by  a  fully  developed  brain.  It 
implies  a  differentiation  between  the  facts  and  fancies 
of  existence.  The  adult  of  twenty-one  who  takes  seri- 
ously the  make-believe  of  the  dolls'  house,  and,  stick- 
ing a  paper  crown  on  her  head,  asks  you  to  recognize 
her  as  a  queen,  is  merely  an  imbecile.  The  sane  adult 
plays  at  mock  tea-parties  and  crowns  itself  monarch 
in  obedience  to  a  different  set  of  impulses  altogether, 
either  through  sheer  gaiety  of  heart,  frankly  making 
unto  itself  no  illusions,  or  using  make-believe  as  a 
symbol  of  the  highest  expression  of  life — videlicet,  art 
— of  which  the  human  mind  is  capable.  And,  al- 
though we  know  very  well  that  there  are  adults,  many 
of  advanced  years,  whom  circumstances  have  so  per- 
verted that  the  Alpha  and  Omega  of  their  lives  is  the 
pursuit  either  of  a  little  ball  or  of  a  verminous  animal 
over  the  surface  of  God's  arresting  earth,  or  else,  it 
may  be,  a  series  of  conjectures  as  to  the  comparative 
velocities  of  unimportant  quadrupeds,  yet  none  of 
them  (at  loose  on  society)  would  have  the  lunacy  or 
the  depravity  to  maintain  that  such  pursuit  or  conjec- 
ture is  a  vital  element  in  the  scheme  of  existence. 
Even  these  who  appear  still  to  dwell  in  the  play-world 
of  the  child  have  the  essential  faculty  of  discrimina- 


148  STELLA    MARIS 

tion.  They  have,  in  dull  intervals  between  round  or 
ride,  encountered  sorrow  and  pain  and  passion  and 
wickedness  and  fierce  struggle  and  despair.  To  them 
the  sordid  tragedies  of  criminal  courts,  the  bestial 
poverty  of  slums,  are  commonplaces  of  knowledge. 
Any  one  of  them  can  reel  off  a  dozen  instances  of  the 
treachery  of  false  friends,  the  faithlessness  of  women, 
the  corruption  of  commercial  or  political  life.  To 
them  are  also  revealed  splendours  of  heroism  and  self- 
sacrifice.  They  have  a  million  data  whence  to  deduce 
a  serviceable  philosophy.  They  are  beyond  all  ques- 
tion grown  up.  But  what  wider  experience  of  life  had 
Stellamaris  gained  in  the  four  years  between  the  ages 
of  sixteen  and  twenty?  What  fresh  facts  of  existence 
had  been  presented  to  her  for  observation  and  correla- 
tion? What  data  had  she  for  that  deduction  of  a 
philosophy  which  marks  the  adult  ?  Neither  harm  nor 
spell  nor  charm  had  come  the  lovely  lady  any  nearer 
during  the  last  four  years  than  during  those  of  her 
childhood.  The  Unwritten  Law  had  prevailed  as 
strong  as  ever.  The  routine  of  the  sea-chamber  had 
remained  unchanged.  Her  reading,  jealously  selected, 
had  brought  her  no  closer  to  the  sad  core  of  many  hu- 
man things.  The  gulls  and  the  waves  and  the  golden 
sunset  clouds  were  still  her  high  companions.  What 
did  people  mean  when  they  said  she  had  grown  up? 
John  continued  for  some  time  to  scratch  a  puzzled 
head. 

"Are  you  not  aware  of  any  change  in  yourself?"  he 
asked. 

She  reflected  for  a  moment.  "No,"  she  replied  seri- 
ously. "Of  course  I  know  more.  I  can  speak  French 
and  Italian — "  Professors  of  these  tongues,  duly 
hedged  about  with  ceremonial,  had  for  a  long  time 
past  attended  in  the  sea-chamber — "and  I  know  lots 
more  of  history  and  geography  and  geology  and  as- 


STELLA   MARIS  149 

tronomy  and  zoology — oh,  Belovedest  dear,  I  'm  dying 
to  see  a  giraffe!  Do  you  think  if  he  stood  on  the 
beach  he  could  stick  his  head  through  the  window  and 
look  at  me?  And  a  hippopotamus — can't  you  bring 
one  in  on  a  string  ?  Or  do  you  think  Constable  would 
bite  him?" 

John  expounded  the  cases  of  the  giraffe  and  the  hip- 
popotamus with  great  gravity.  Her  eyebrows  con- 
tracted ever  so  little,  and  a  spark  danced  in  her  eyes 
as  she  waited  for  the  end  of  the  lecture. 

"Oh,  dear,  can't  you  see  a  joke?" 

"Joke?" 

"Why,  yes.  Don't  you  think  I  know  all  about  hip- 
popotamuses ?" 

"Four  years  ago,"  said  John,  "if  I  had  told  you  that 
a  wyvern  and  a  unicorn  were  coming  to  tea,  you  would 
have  believed  me.  Now  you  would  n't.  You  've 
grown  up.  That  's  what  I  meant." 

"I  see,"  said  Stellamaris. 

But  she  did  n't;  for  she  turned  the  conversation 
back  to  the  palace. 

"I  'm  afraid,  dear,"  said  he,  "that  the  cats  are  dead 
and  Arachne  has  married  a  stock-broker,  and  I  've 
been  so  busy  that  the  palace  has  run  to  seed." 

"I  thought  she  was  going  to  marry  a  duke/'  said 
Stella,  whose  memory  for  unimportant  detail  was 
femininely  tenacious. 

"The  duke  was  caught  by  Miss  Cassandra  P. 
Wurgles,"  said  John,  once  more  launched  on  the  sea 
of  romance. 

"What  a  funny  name,"  said  Stella. 

"It  's  the  kind  of  name,"  he  replied,  "always  given 
in  English  fiction  to  the  heiresses  of  the  Middle  West 
of  America." 

"Was  she  an  heiress?" 

"Worth  billions.    After  they  were  married  they  do 


150  STELLA   MARIS 

say  she  would  n't  let  the  duke  wipe  his  razor  on  any- 
thing less  valuable  than  a  thousand-dollar  bill." 

"I  don't  think  that 's  quite  true,"  laughed  Stella. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  John.  "Anyhow,  Arachne  fell 
back  on  a  stock-broker  named  Maclsaac,  and  now 
there  's  no  one  to  look  after  the  palace." 

"No  one  at  all?"    Her  voice  was  full  of  pity. 

"Not  a  soul,"  said  he. 

A  tragic  pause  followed  this  forlorn  declaration. 

"Dear  Belovedest,"  said  Stella,  very  seriously,  "I  do 
wish  I  could  come  and  set  it  right  for  you." 

Their  eyes  met.    John  sighed. 

"I  wish  you  could,"  said  he.  "There  's  a  fairy 
wand  standing  in  the  corner  which  no  one  but  you 
can  touch.  It  gives  every  one  else  an  electric  shock 
that  sends  them  head  over  heels.  But  if  you  could  get 
it  and  wave  it  about  the  place,  you  would  make  all 
sorts  of  dead  things  come  to  glorious  life,  and  fill  all 
the  garden  walks  with  flowers,  and  make  the  waters 
live  again  in  the  fountains." 

It  was  the  John  Risca  whom  she  had  always  known 
that  spoke,  the  John  Risca  of  whom  Herold  had  oc- 
casional flashes,  so  that  he  could  discount  his  usual 
gloomy  petulance  and  love  the  essential  man,  the  John 
Risca  whose  hand  poor  dumb,  little  Unity  Blake  had 
laid  against  her  cheek — the  best  and  purest  John  Risca, 
a  will-o'-the-wisp  gleam  to  all  his  nearest  save  Stella- 
maris;  but  to  Stellamaris  just  the  ordinary,  common- 
place, unaltering,  and  unalterable  John  Risca,  the 
Great  High  Belovedest  of  her  earliest  memories.  He 
had  said  things  like  this  a  hundred  thousand  times  be- 
fore. Yet  now  the  colour  rose  once  more  into  her 
cheeks,  and  a  mist  such  as  might  surround  a  dewdrop 
veiled  her  eyes. 

"What  makes  you  think  I  could  do  all  that  for 
you  ?"  she  asked. 


STELLA   MARIS  151 

"I  don't  know,  my  dear,"  said  John.  "You  seem  to 
belong  to  another  world."  He  stumbled.  "You  're 
just  a  fairy  sort  of  creature." 

The  answer  did  not  satisfy  the  instinctive  innermost 
whence  sprang  the  question;  but  it  served.  Woman 
since  the  beginning  of  things  has  had  to  content  her- 
self with  half -answers  from  man,  seeing  that  she 
vouchsafes  him  scarcely  any  answers  at  all.  She 
smiled  and  stretched  out  her  hand.  John  took  it  in  his 
clumsy  fingers.  It  was  whiter  than  any  hand  in  the 
world,  veined  with  the  faintest  of  faint  blue. 

"Anyhow,"  she  said,  "you  ought  n't  to  have  neg- 
lected the  palace." 

"What  was  I  to  do?"  he  asked  whimsically. 
"You  've  been  so  busy  growing  up  that  you've  had  no 
time  to  help  me  to  run  it." 

"Oh!"  she  said.  She  withdrew  her  hand.  "Oh, 
Belovedest,  how  can  you  say  such  a  thing !" 

"You  yourself,"  laughed  John,  "asked  whether  it 
was  months  or  years  since  we  talked  of  it." 

"I  've  never  stopped  thinking  about  it,"  she  pro- 
tested, and  she  went  on  protesting.  But,  like  the 
Shakspearian  lady,  she  protested  too  much. 

"You  've  grown  up,  Stellamaris,"  said  John. 

But  how  much  of  the  old  fairy-tale  she  still  believed 
in  he  could  not  gauge.  He  went  away,  man  with  the 
muck-rake  that  he  was,  with  the  uncomfortable  con- 
viction that  the  roots  of  her  child's  faith  survived. 

And  yet  she  had  grown  up,  and  John,  for  the  life 
of  him,  could  not  understand  it.  He  was  puzzled, 
because  the  sweet  reverence  of  the  man  for  the  thing 
of  sea-foam  and  cloud  mystery  that  she  had  been  to 
him  all  his  man's  life  could  not  dream  of  physiological 
development.  She  was  longer  and  broader;  that  met 
the  eye.  Living  in  her  extraordinary  seclusion  from 
the  multitudinous  winds  of  earth,  she  could  feel  no 


1 52  STELLA    MARIS 

breath  of  the  storms  that  shake  humanity  into  the 
myriad  moulds  of  character.  The  physical  side  (other 
than  mere  linear  and  cubical  expansion)  apart,  there 
was  no  possibility  of  change  from  childhood  to  wom- 
anhood. But  John  counted  without  his  host — Nature, 
the  host  who  claims  reckoning  from  us  all,  kick  though 
we  may  against  her  tyrannies ;  Nature,  with  her  frank 
indecencies,  her  uncompromising,  but  loving,  realism. 
The  physical  side  in  the  development  of  any  human 
being  cannot  be  set  apart.  That  passage  of  every 
maiden  across  the  ford  where  brook  and  river  meet 
is  accomplished  without  a  good,  careless  man's  knowl- 
edge or  conjecture.  He  kisses  her  to-day,  as  he  has 
kissed  her  since  she  toddled  with  bare  legs,  and  she 
responds,  and  it  means  little  more  to  her  than  an 
acidulated  drop.  He  shall  kiss  her  to-morrow,  and  she 
shall  grow  as  red  as  any  turkey-cock,  and  cast  down 
her  eyes,  and  go  through  all  the  pretty  antics  char- 
acteristic, since  the  beginning  of  time,  of  a  self-con- 
scious sex.  And  the  man  shall  go  away  scratching  his 
head  in  a  deuce  of  a  puzzle. 

ANOTHER  year  passed.  Stella  was  twenty-one.  The 
routine  of  the  Channel  House,  of  the  house  at  Kil- 
burn,  of  the  Fulham  flat,  went  on  unchanged  and  un- 
changing. Time  seems  unimportant  as  a  positive 
agent  in  human  affairs.  It  is  the  solvent  of  sorrow, 
but  it  cannot  create  joy.  From  its  benumbing  influ- 
ence no  drama  seems  to  spring.  It  is  events — and 
events,  too,  no  matter  how  trivial — that  have  their 
roots  mysteriously  deep  in  time  that  shake  the  world 
and  make  the  drama  which  we  call  history.  And  it 
was  an  event,  apparently  trivial,  but  sudden,  unlocked 
for,  amazing,  that  shook  the  lives  whose  history  is 
here  recorded. 

One  morning,  in  obedience  to  a  peremptory  tele- 


STELLA    MARIS  153 

gram  from  Sir  Oliver  Blount,  John  Risca  met  him  at 
the  Imperial  Club.  The  old  man  rose  from  his  seat 
near  the  entrance  of  the  smoking-room  into  which 
John  was  shown,  and  excitedly  wrung  both  his  hands. 

"My  dear  boy,  you  must  come  to  Southcliff  at  once." 

Two  or  three  times  before  he  had  been  brought 
down  post-haste  by  Sir  Oliver,  only  to  find  himself 
needed  as  a  mediator  between  husband  and  wife.  He 
shook  himself  free. 

"Out  of  the  question,  Oliver.  I  'm  overwhelmed 
with  work.  I  've  got  my  syndicate  article  to  do,  and 
the  review  goes  to  press  to-night." 

"You  don't  understand.  It  's  our  darling  Stella. 
This  morning  she  lifted  her  head  from  the  pillow." 

"But  that 's  her  death-warrant,"  cried  John,  quickly. 

"It  's  her  life-warrant.  The  fatal  thing  we've  been 
warned  against  all  these  years  is  no  longer  fatal.  She 
can  move  her  head  easily,  painlessly.  Don't  you  see  ?" 

The  weak  old  eyes  were  wet. 

"My  God!"  said  John.  His  breath  came  fast,  and 
he  clapped  his  great  hand  on  the  other's  lean  shoul- 
ders. "But  that  means — great  God  in  heaven!" — his 
voice  shook — "what  may  it  not  mean?" 

"It  may  mean  everything,"  said  Sir  Oliver. 

From  time  to  time  throughout  Stella's  life  the  great 
magicians  of  science  had  entered  the  sea-chamber  and 
departed  thence,  shaking  sad  and  certain  heads.  With 
proper  care,  they  said,  Stellamaris  might  live — might 
live,  indeed,  until  her  hair  turned  white  and  her  young 
cheeks  shrivelled  with  age ;  but  of  leaving  that  bed  by 
the  window  and  going  forth  into  the  outer  world  there 
was  no  hope  or  question.  Still,  Nature,  the  inscrut- 
able, the  whimsical,  might  be  cozened  by  treatment 
into  working  a  miracle.  At  any  rate,  no  harm  would 
be  done  by  trying,  and  her  guardians  would  have  the 
consoling  assurance  that  nothing  had  been  left  un- 


154  STELLA    MARIS 

done.  They  prescribed  after  their  high  knowledge,  and 
pocketed  their  high  fees,  and  went  their  way.  Dr. 
Ransome,  Stella's  lifelong  doctor  and  worshipper,  car- 
ried out  each  great  magician's  orders,  and,  as  prophe- 
sied, nothing  ever  happened  either  for  good  or  harm. 

But,  six  months  ago,  a  greater  magician  than  all, 
one  Wilhelm  von  Pfeiler  of  Vienna,  who  by  work- 
ing miracles  on  his  own  account  with  newly  discov- 
ered and  stupendous  forces  had  begun  to  startle  scien- 
tific Europe,  happened  to  be  in  England,  and  was 
summoned  to  the  sea-chamber.  He  was  a  dark,  silky- 
bearded  man  in  whose  eyes  brooded  perpetual  melan- 
choly. He,  too,  shook  his  head  and  said  "Perhaps." 
Ransome,  who  had  seized  with  high  hopes  on  the  wan- 
dering magician,  found  him  vastly  depressing.  His 
"Perhaps"  was  more  mournfully  hopeless  than  the 
others'  "No."  He  spoke  little,  for  he  knew  no  Eng- 
lish, and  Ransome's  German,  like  that  of  Stella's 
household,  was  scanty;  but  Ransome  understood  him 
to  croak  platitudes  about  time  and  youth  and  growth 
and  nature  being  factors  in  the  case.  As  to  his  newly 
discovered  treatment,  well,  it  might  have  some  effect ; 
he  was  certain  of  nothing;  as  yet  no  sure  deductions 
could  be  drawn  from  his  experiments ;  everything  con- 
cerning the  application  of  these  new  forces  was  at  the 
empirical  stage.  So  profound  a  melancholy  rang  in 
his  utterances  that  he  left  Lady  Blount  weeping  bit- 
terly, and  convinced  that  he  had  passed  death-sentence 
on  their  beloved  being.  Then  a  near-sighted,  taciturn 
young  man,  a  budding  magician  who  had  sat  at  Von 
Pfeiler's  feet  in  Vienna,  came  down  from  London 
with  apparatus  worth  a  hundred  times  its  weight  in 
gold.  And  nothing  happened  or  seemed  about  to  hap- 
pen. Stella  called  him  the  gnome. 

All  this  John  knew.  Like  the  rest  of  Stella's  satel- 
lites, accustomed  for  years  to  the  unhesitating  pro- 


STELLA    MARIS  155 

nouncements  of  the  great  specialists  and  to  their  un- 
healing  remedies,  he  had  little  faith  in  Von  Pfeiler. 
The  taciturn  young  surgeon  who  had  been  adminis- 
tering the  treatment  kept  his  own  counsel  and  gave  no 
encouragement  to  questioners.  John  had  agreed  with 
Sir  Oliver  that  it  was  a  waste  of  time  and  money — a 
fabulous  amount  of  money;  but  the  treatment  amused 
Stella,  and  she  liked  the  gnome,  whom  every  one  else 
detested,  because  he  loved  dogs,  and  cured  Constable, 
now  growing  old  and  rheumatic,  of  a  stiff  leg.  So 
every  one  suffered  the  gnome  patiently. 

And  now  the  miracle  had  been  worked.  Stella  had 
lifted  her  head  from  the  pillow.  The  two  men  sat 
tremulous  with  hope. 

"I  've  been  so  upset,"  said  Sir  Oliver,  "and  so  has 
Julia.  We  had  words.  Why,  I  don't  know.  I  love 
our  darling  quite  as  much  as  she  does;  but  Julia  is 
trying.  Waiter!  Get  me  a  brandy  and  soda.  What 
will  you  have  ?  Nothing  ?  I  don't  usually  drink  spir- 
its in  the  morning,  John;  but  I  feel  I  need  it.  I  'm 
getting  old  and  can't  stand  shocks." 

"What  does  Ransome  say?" 

"He  's  off  his  head.  Every  one  's  off  his  head. 
The  very  dog  is  rushing  about  like  a  lunatic.  Nearly 
knocked  me  down  in  the  garden." 

"And  Cassilis?" 

Cassilis  was  the  gnome. 

"Ransome  has  telegraphed  him  to  come  down  at 
once.  But  I  thought  I  'd  run  up  and  tell  you.  We 
might  go  together  to  see  him  and  fetch  him  back 
with  us.  You  '11  come,  won't  you?" 

"Come?  Why,  of  course  I'll  come.  What  do  you 
think  I  '11  do?  Stay  in  London  at  such  a  time  and 
send  her  a  post-card  to  say  I  'm  glad  ?" 

"You  said  something  about  seeing  your  review 
through  the  press." 


156  STELLA    MARTS 

"Oh,  confound  the  review !  It  can  go  to  the  devil," 
cried  John. 

London  ablaze  with  revolution  would  have  been  a 
small  matter  compared  with  this  world-shaking  event, 
the  lifting  of  a  girl's  head. 

"It  will  be  such  a  comfort  to  me,"  said  the  old  man. 
"I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I  can't  rest.  My  mind's 
in  a  maze.  It  's  like  the  raising  of  Jairus's  daughter." 

"Let  us  do  some  telephoning,"  said  John. 

They  went  out  together.  John  rang  up  Cassilis. 
He  had  been  out  all  the  morning  and  would  not  be 
returning  for  another  hour.  John  rang  up  Herold  at 
a  theatre  where  he  knew  him  to  be  rehearsing,  and 
gave  him  the  glad  news.  They  returned  to  the  smok- 
ing-room. Sir  Oliver  drank  off  his  brandy  and  soda 
at  one  gulp. 

"And  Stella  herself?  What  does  she  make  of 
it?" 

"The  only  one  not  upset  in  the  house.  That  little 
girl  's  an  angel,  John."  He  blew  his  nose  violently. 
"It  appears  she  was  stretching  out  her  arm  to  pat  the 
old  dog's  chaps,  overreached  herself  a  bit,  and  me- 
chanically her  head  came  away  from  the  pillow.  She 
called  out  to  nurse,  'Nurse,  I  've  lifted  my  head.' 
Nurse  flew  up  to  her.  'What  do  you  mean,  darling?' 
She  showed  her.  She  showed  her,  by  God!  Nurse 
forbade  her  to  do  it  any  more,  and  flew  down-stairs 
like  a  wildcat  to  tell  us.  Then  we  telephoned  to  Ran- 
some.  He  saw  her;  she  did  it  for  him;  then  he  came 
to  us  white  and  shaking  all  over.  Naturally  I  wanted 
to  see  the  darling  child  do  it,  too.  Julia  interfered. 
Stella  must  n't  do  it  again  till  Cassilis  came.  Then 
we  had  the  words.  She  said  I  was  eaten  through  with 
egotism — I!  Now,  am  I,  John?" 

Presently  Herold  dashed  in,  aflame  with  excite- 
ment. The  story,  such  as  it  was,  had  to  be  told  anew. 


STELLA    MARIS  157 

"I  '11  come  with  you  to  Cassilis,  and  then  on  to 
Southcliff." 

"But  your  rehearsal?"  said  John. 

Herold  confounded  the  rehearsal,  even  as  John  had 
confounded  his  review.  In  the  presence  of  this  thrill- 
ing wonder,  trivialities  had  no  place. 

Cassilis  received  this  agitated  and  unusual  deputa- 
tion without  a  flicker  of  surprise.  He  was  a  bald- 
headed,  prematurely  old  young  man,  with  great,  round 
spectacles.  He  gave  one  the  air  of  an  inhuman  cus- 
todian of  awful  secrets. 

"I  presume  you  have  called  with  reference  to  this," 
said  he,  indicating  a  telegram  which  he  held  in  his 
hand.  "I  've  just  opened  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Sir  Oliver.  "Is  n't  it  wonderful? 
You  must  come  down  with  us  at  once." 

"It  's  very  inconvenient  for  me  to  leave  London." 

"My  dear  sir,  you  must  throw  over  every  engage- 
ment." 

The  shadow  of  a  smile  passed  over  the  young  man's 
features. 

"If  you  press  the  point,  I'll  come." 

"But  are  n't  you  astounded  at  what  has  occurred? 
Don't  you  understand  Ransome's  message?" 

"Perfectly,"  said  Cassilis.  "I  've  already  written 
to  Dr.  von  Pfeiler — a  week  ago — detailing  the  pro- 
gress and  full  success  of  the  case." 

"Then  you  know  all  about  it?"  asked  John. 

"Naturally.  I  've  been  practising  her  at  it  for  the 
last  fortnight,  though  she  did  n't  realize  what  I  was 
doing." 

"Then  why  on  earth  did  n't  you  tell  us?" 

"I  had  arranged  to  tell  you  to-morrow,"  said  Cas- 
silis. 

"I  don't  think  you  've  acted  rightly,  sir,"  cried  Sir 
Oliver. 


158  STELLA    MARIS 

"Never  mind  that,"  said  Herold.  "Mr.  Cassilis 
doubtless  has  his  excellent  reasons.  The  main  thing 
is,  Will  her  cure  go  beyond  this?  Will  she  get  well 
and  strong?  Will  she  be  able  to  walk  about  God's 
earth  like  anybody  else?" 

The  little  gnome-like  man  straightened  with  his  toe 
a  rucked  corner  of  the  hearth-rug.  He  paused  de- 
liberately before  replying,  apparently  unmoved  by  the 
anxious  eyes  bent  on  him.  There  was  a  span  of  agon- 
ized silence.  Then  he  spoke : 

"This  time  next  year  she  will  be  leading  a  woman's 
normal  life." 

The  words  fell  clear-cut  on  the  quiet  of  the  room. 
The  three  men  uttered  not  a  word.  Cassilis,  asking 
their  leave  to  make  some  small  preparations  for  his 
journey,  left  them.  Then,  relieved  of  his  presence, 
they  drew  together  and  pressed  one  another's  hands 
and  stood  speechless,  like  children  suddenly  brought 
to  the  brink  of  some  new  wonderland. 


'THIS   TIME  NEXT   YEAR   SHE   WILL   BE   LEADING   A   WOMAN'S   NORMAL  LITE' 


CHAPTER  XII 

THENCEFORWARD  a  humming  confusion 
reigned  in  the  Channel  House.  The  story  of 
the  miraculous  recovery  spread  through 
Southcliff.  Sir  Oliver  and  Lady  Blount  held  a  little 
court  every  day  to  receive  congratulations.  A  few 
privileged  well-wishers  were  admitted  to  the  sea- 
chamber,  where  Stella  still  lay  enthroned  by  the  win- 
dow. She  had  not  realized  the  extent  of  her  fame 
among  the  inhabitants  until  a  garrulous  visitor  told 
her  that  she  was  one  of  the  pet  traditions  of  the 
place  and  that  her  great-windowed  room  at  the  top 
of  the  house  on  the  cliff  was  always  pointed  out  with 
pride  to  the  tourist. 

In  her  mysterious  seclusion  she  had  become  a  local 
celebrity.  This  interest  of  the  little  world  grouped 
about  the  Channel  House  added  a  joy  to  her  anticipa- 
tion of  mingling  with  it.  The  affection  in  which  she 
was  held  by  butcher  and  baker,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
mayor  and  corporation,  cemented  her  faith  (in  which 
she  had  been  so  jealously  bred)  in  the  delightful  per- 
fection of  mankind. 

Meanwhile  she  progressed  daily  towards  recovery, 
very  slowly,  but  with  magical  sureness.  Cassilis  con- 
tinued his  treatment.  Queer  apparatuses  were  fitted 
to  her  so  that  she  could  go  through  queer  muscular 
exercises.  She  was  being  put  into  training,  as  it  were, 
for  life.  Every  new  stage  in  her  progress  was 
marked  by  fetes  and  rejoicings.  The  first  time  that 

159 


160  STELLA    MARTS 

her  bed  could  be  wheeled  into  a  room  on  the  other 
side  of  the  house  was  a  solemn  occasion.  It  was  July, 
and  the  rolling  hills,  rich  in  corn-fields  and  forest 
greenery,  were  flooded  with  sunlight.  The  earth  pro- 
claimed its  fruitful  plenty,  and  laughed  in  the  joy  of 
its  loveliness. 

That  which  to  those  with  her  was  a  comrrionplace 
of  beauty  stretched  before  Stellamaris's  vision  as  a 
new  and  soul-arresting  wonder.  She  had  only  elu- 
sive, childish  memories  of  the  actual  earth ;  for  before 
she  had  been  laid  upon  her  back  never  to  rise  again, 
she  had  been  a  delicate,  invalid  child.  She  had  seen 
thousands  of  pictures,  so  that  she  was  at  no  intellec- 
tual loss  to  account  for  the  spectacle;  but,  for  all  her 
life  that  counted,  sea  and  sky  in  their  myriad  changes 
had  been  her  intimate  conception  of  the  world.  And 
it  had  been  her  world — the  only  world  that  her  eyes 
would  ever  rest  upon ;  and  as  it  had  never  entered  her 
head  to  hope  for  another,  it  had  sufficed  her  soul's 
needs.  Indeed,  it  had  overwhelmed  them  with  its  lar- 
gess, until,  as  Herold  declared,  she  herself  had  be- 
come a  creature  of  cloud  and  wave.  This  sudden 
presentation  of  a  new  and  unrealized  glory  set  her 
heart  beating  madly ;  her  cheeks  grew  white,  and  tears 
rolled  down  them. 

"Now,  is  n't  that  a  beautiful  view?"  said  Lady 
Blount. 

"Soon  we  '11  hire  a  motor,  until  you  can  buy  one 
for  yourself,  and  go  and  explore  it  all,  my  dear," 
said  Sir  Oliver. 

"Southcliff  lies  just  below  there  on  the  left,"  said 
the  nurse. 

"See  that  red  roof  there  between  the  trees  ?  That 's 
where  our  old  friend  Colonel  Dukes  lives.  Devilish 
good  house;  though,  if  he  had  taken  my  advice  when 
he  was  building  it,  it  would  have  been  much  better." 


STELLA    MARIS  161 

"And  just  over  there,"  said  Lady  Blount,  point- 
ing, "is  the  railway  that  takes  you  to  London." 

"You  're  quite  wrong,  Julia,"  said  Sir  Oliver; 
"that  's  a  bit  of  the  south  coast  line.  Is  n't  it,  John?" 

"Oliver  is  right.  You  can't  see  the  London  line 
from  here,"  said  John. 

They  went  on  talking,  but  Stella,  in  a  rapture  of 
vision,  heeded  them  not.  Herold,  who  stood  quite 
close  to  her,  was  silent.  She  held  his  hand,  and 
gripped  it  almost  convulsively.  John,  with  rare  ob- 
servation, noticed  that  her  knuckles  were  white.  Her 
face  was  set  in  an  agony  of  adoration  too  poignant 
for  speech.  John,  curiously  sensitive  where  Stella 
was  concerned,  realized  that  these  two  hand  in  hand 
were  close  together  on  a  plane  of  feeling  too  high  for 
the  profane.  With  a  little  movement  of  deprecation 
which  neither  Herold  nor  Stella  perceived,  he  pushed 
the  others  toward  the  door  and,  following  them  out 
of  the  room,  closed  it  behind  them. 

"Better  leave  her  alone  with  Walter,"  said  he. 

"Quite  so,"  said  Sir  Oliver.  "Just  what  I  told  you, 
Julia.  We  must  let  her  go  slow  for  a  bit  and  not 
excite  her." 

"I  don't  remember  you  ever  saying  anything  of  the 
kind,"  retorted  Lady  Blount.  "It  was  Walter." 

"Well,  Oliver  agreed  with  him,  which  comes  to  the 
same  thing,"  said  John,  acting  peacemaker. 

But  they  wrangled  all  down  the  corridor,  and  when 
the  two  men  were  left  alone,  Sir  Oliver  shook  his 
head. 

"A  trying  woman,  John ;  very  trying." 

Meanwhile  Stella  and  Herold  remained  for  a  long 
time  in  the  quiet  room  without  the  utterance  of  a 
word.  As  soon  as  the  others  went,  her  grasp  relaxed. 
Herold  drew  a  chair  gently  to  her  side  and  waited  pa- 
tiently for  her  to  speak ;  for  he  saw  that  her  soul  was 


1 62  STELLA    MARIS 

at  grips  with  the  new  glory  of  the  earth.  At  last  a 
quivering  sigh  shook  her,  and  she  turned  her  wet 
eyes  away  from  the  window  and  looked  at  him  with 
a  smile. 

"Well?"  said  he. 

"I  feel  that  it  is  all  too  beautiful." 

"It  makes  you  sad." 

"Yes;  vaguely,  but  exquisitely.  How  did  you 
guess  ?" 

"Your  eyes  have  been  streaming,  Stellamaris." 

"Foolish,  isn't  it?" 

"I  suppose  it  's  the  finite  realizing  itself  uncon- 
sciously before  the  infinite.  Is  it  too  much  for  you  ?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  should  like  to  stay  here 
and  gaze  at  this  forever  till  I  drank  it  all,  all  in." 

"Have  you  ever  read  the  life  of  St.  Brigit?"  he 
asked.  "There  's  one  little  episode  in  it  which  comes 
to  my  mind." 

"Tell  me,"  said  Stella. 

"She  founded  convents,  you  know,  in  Ireland. 
Now,  there  was  one  nun  dearly  loved  by  St.  Brigit, 
and  she  had  been  blind  from  birth;  and  one  evening 
they  were  sitting  on  one  of  the  Wicklow  Hills,  and 
St.  Brigit  described  to  her  all  the  beauties  of  the  green 
valleys  below,  and  the  silver  streams  and  the  purple 
mountains  beyond,  melting  into  the  happy  sky.  And 
the  nun  said,  'Sister,  pray  to  God  to  work  a  miracle 
and  give  me  sight  so  that  I  can  see  it  and  glorify 
Him.'  So  St.  Brigit  prayed,  and  God  heard  her 
prayer,  and  the  eyes  of  the  nun  were  opened,  and  she 
looked  upon  the  world,  and  her  senses  were  ravished 
by  its  glory.  And  then  she  fell  to  weeping  and  trem- 
•bling  and  she  sank  on  her  knees  before  St.  Brigit  and 
said,  'I  have  seen,  but  I  beseech  thee  pray  that  my 
sight  be  taken  again  from  me,  for  I  fear  that  in  the 
'beauty  of  the  world  I  may  forget  God.'  And  St. 


STELLA    MARIS  163 

Brig-it  prayed  again,  and  God  heard  her,  and  the  nun's 
sight  was  taken  from  her.  And  they  both  lifted  their 
voices  to  heaven  and  glorified  the  Lord." 

Stella  sighed  when  he  had  ended,  and  quiet  fell 
upon  them.  She  looked  dreamily  out  of  the  window. 
Herold  watched  her  face,  with  a  pang  at  his  heart.  It 
was  as  pure  as  a  little  child's. 

"It  's  a  lovely  legend,"  she  said  at  last.  "But  the 
nun  was  wrong.  The  beauty  of  this  world  ought  to 
bring  one  nearer  to  God  instead  of  making  one  forget 
Him." 

Herold  smiled.    "Certainly  it  ought  to,"  said  he. 

"Why  did  you  tell  me  the  story?' 

"Because  it  came  into  my  head." 

"There  was  some  other  reason." 

He  could  not  deny,  for  in  her  candid  eyes  he  saw 
assurance;  yet  he  dared  not  tell  her  that  which 
•dimmed  the  crystal  of  his  gladness.  He  saw  the  crea- 
ture of  cloud  and  foam  gasping  in  the  tainted  atmos- 
phere of  the  world  of  men;  the  dewdrop  on  the  star 
exposed  to  the  blazing  sun.  What  would  happen? 

"I  am  going  to  get  well,"  she  continued,  seeing  that 
he  did  not  answer,  "and  walk  out  soon  into  the  gar- 
dens and  the  streets  and  see  all  the  wonderful,  won- 
derful things,  you  and  Belovedest  have  told  me  of. 
And" — she  pressed  her  hands  to  her  bosom — "I  can't 
contain  myself  for  joy.  And  yet,  Walter  dear,  you 
seem  to  think  I  should  be  better  off  if  I  remained  as 
I  am — or  was.  I  can't  understand  it." 

"My  dear,"  said  Herold  reluctantly,  wishing  he  had 
never  heard  of  St.  Brigit,  "so  long  as  you  see  God 
through  the  beauties  and  vanities  of  the  world,  as 
you  Ve  seen  Him  through  the  sea-mists  and  the  dawn, 
and  the  sunset,  all  will  be  well.  But  that  takes  a 
brave  spirit — braver  than  St.  Brigit's  nun.  She  feared 
lest  she  might  see  the  world,  and  nothing  but  the 


1 64  STELLA    MARIS 

world,  and  nothing  divine  shining  through.  People 
who  do  that  lose  their  souls." 

"Then  you  think,"  said  Stellamaris,  wrinkling  her 
smooth  brow — "you  think  that  the  blind  have  the 
truer  vision." 

"Truer  than  that  of  the  weak,  perhaps,  but  not  as 
true  as  the  strong  spirits  who  dare  see  fearlessly." 

"Do  you  think  I  am  weak  or  strong?"  she  asked, 
with  a  woman's  relentless  grip  on  the  personal. 

"What  else  but  a  strong  spirit,"  he  replied  half  dis- 
ingenuously, "could  have  triumphed,  as  you  have 
done,  over  a  lifelong  death?" 

"Death?"  She  opened  her  eyes  wide.  "Death? 
But  I  've  lived  every  hour  of  my  life,  and  it  has  been 
utterly  happy." 

"The  strong  spirit,  dear,"  said  Herold. 

"Great  High  Favourite  dear,  what  else  could  you 
say?" 

She  laughed,  but  the  tenderness  in  her  eyes  absolved 
the  laugh  and  the  feminine  speech  from  coquetry. 

"I  might  talk  to  you  as  John  Knox  did  to  Mary, 
Queen  of  Scots." 

Just  as  life  had  been  translated  to  the  hapless  Miss 
Kilmansegg  of  the  Golden  Leg  into  terms  of  gold, 
so  had  it  been  translated  to  Stella  into  terms  of 
beauty.  History  had  been  translated,  accordingly, 
into  terms  of  romance.  She  had  heard,  indeed,  of 
Mary  Stuart,  but  as  a  being  of  legendary  and  un- 
naughty  loveliness.  At  the  stern  image  of  the  grave 
Calvinist  she  shrank. 

"John  Knox  was  a  horrid,  croaking  raven,"  she 
emphatically  declared,  "and  nobody  could  possibly  talk 
like  that  nowadays." 

Herold  laughed  and  turned  the  conversation  into 
lighter  channels.  The  Unwritten  Law  prevailed  over 
his  instinctive  impulse  to  warn  her  against  the  decep- 


STELLA    MARIS  165 

tive  glamour  of  the  world.  Then  the  hour  struck  for 
an  item  in  the  invalid's  routine,  and  the  nurse  came 
in,  and  Stella  was  wheeled  back  to  her  high  chamber. 

Many  days  of  her  convalescence  after  this  were 
marked  with  red  stones.  There  was  the  first  day 
when,  carried  down-stairs,  she  presided  from  her  high 
couch  at  a  dinner-party  given  in  her  honour,  the  guests 
being  John  Risca  and  Walter  Herold,  Wratislaw  and 
the  nurse,  Dr.  Ransome  and  his  wife,  and  the  gnome- 
headed  and  spectacled  Cassilis. 

It  was  a  merry  party,  and  towards  the  end  of  din- 
ner, when  the  port  went  round,  Stella's  own  maid 
coached  for  the  part,  at  a  sign  from  Sir  Oliver  who 
commanded  silence,  spoke  in  a  falsetto  voice  sticking 
in  a  nervous  throat  the  familiar  words:  "Miss 
Stella's  compliments,  and  would  the  gentlemen  take 
a  glass  of  wine  with  her."  And  they  all  rose  and 
drank  and  made  a  great  noise,  and  the  tears  rolled 
down  John  Risca's  cheeks  and  fell  upon  his  bulging 
shirt-front,  and  Sir  Oliver  blew  his  nose  loudly  and 
made  a  speech. 

A  great  day,  too,  was  her  first  progress  in  her 
wheel-chair  about  the  grounds  of  the  Channel  House. 
All  was  wonder  and  wild  delight  to  the  girl  who  had 
never  seen,  or  had  seen  so  long  ago  that  she  had  for- 
gotten, the  velvet  of  smooth  turf;  the  glory  of  roses 
growing  in  their  heyday  insolence ;  the  alluring  shade 
of  leafy  chestnuts;  the  pansies  clinging  to  dear  Mother 
Earth ;  the  fairy  spray  of  water  from  a  hose-pipe  over 
thirsty  beds;  the  crisp  motion,  explaining  the  myste- 
rious echo  of  years,  of  the  grass-mower  driven  over 
the  lawn;  the  ivy  tapestry  of  walls;  the  bewildering 
masses  of  sweet-peas;  the  apples,  small  and  green 
though  they  were,  actually  hanging  from  boughs;  the 
real  live  fowls,  jaunty  in  prosperous  plumage,  so  dif- 
ferent from  the  apologetic  naked  shapes — fowls  hith- 


1 66  STELLA   MARIS 

erto  to  her,  which  Morris,  the  maid,  had  carved  for 
her  meals  at  a  side  table  in  the  sea-chamber,  the  cab- 
bages brave  in  crinkled  leaf,  unaware  of  their  doom 
of  ultimate  hot  agglutination,  the  tender  green 
bunches  of  grapes  in  glass-houses  drinking  wine  from 
the  mother  founts  of  the  sun,  the  quiet  cows  on  the 
gently  sloping  pasture-land. 

At  last  she  put  her  hands  over  her  eyes,  and  Herold 
made  a  sign,  and  they  wheeled  the  chair  back  to  the 
house;  and  only  when  they  halted  in  the  wide,  cool 
drawing-room,  with  windows  opening  to  the  south, 
did  she  look  at  outer  things ;  and  then,  while  all  stood 
by  in  a  hush,  she  drew  a  few  convulsive  breaths  and 
rested  her  overwrought  spirit  on  the  calm,  familiar 
sea. 

A  day  of  days,  too,  when,  still  in  glorious  summer 
weather,  they  hired  an  enormous  limousine  from  the 
great  watering-place  a  few  miles  off,  and  took  her  all 
but  prone,  and  incased  in  the  appliances  of  science, 
through  the  gates  of  the  Channel  House  into  the  big 
world.  They  drove  over  the  Sussex  Downs,  along 
chalk  roads,  between  crisp  grass-lands  dotted  with 
sheep,  through  villages, — gleams  of  paradises  compact 
of  thatched  roof,  rambler  roses,  blue  and  white  gar- 
ments hung  out  on  lines  to  laugh  in  the  sunshine, 
flashing  new  stucco  cottages,  labelled  "County  Police'' 
(a  puzzle  to  Stellamaris),  ramshackle  shops,  with  odd 
wares,  chiefly  sweets,  exposed  in  tiny  casement  win- 
dows, old  inns  flaunting  brave  signs,  "The  Five  Alls," 
"The  Leather  Bottell,"  away  from  the  road,  with  a 
forecourt  containing  rude  bench  and  table  and  trough 
for  horses,  young  women,  with  the  cheeks  of  the 
fresh,  and  old  women,  with  the  cheeks  of  the  with- 
ered apple,  and  sun-tanned  men,  and  children  of  un- 
dreamed-of chubbiness.  And  to  Stellamaris  all  was 
a  wonderland  of  joy. 

During  most  of  the  month  of  August  the  rain  fell 


STELLA   MARIS  167 

heavily  and  outdoor  excursions  became  rare  events, 
and  the  world  as  seen  from  windows  was  a  gray  and 
dripping  spectacle.  But  Stella,  accustomed  to  the 
vast  dreariness  of  wintry  seas,  found  fresh  beauties 
in  the  rain-swept  earth.  The  patter  of  drops  on  leaves 
played  new  and  thrilling  melodies;  a  slant  of  sun- 
shine across  wet  grass  offered  magical  harmonies  of 
colour;  the  unfamiliar  smell  of  the  reeking  soil  was 
grateful  to  her  nostrils.  And  had  she  not  the  capti- 
vating indoor  life  among  pleasant  rooms  in  which  she 
had  hitherto  dwelt  only  in  fancy?  Hopes  in  the  proc- 
ess of  fulfilment  gilded  the  glad  days. 

She  talked  unceasingly  to  those  about  her  of  the 
happy  things  to  come. 

"Soon  we  '11  be  teaching  you  to  walk,"  said  John. 

She  glowed.  "That  's  going  to  be  the  most  glori- 
ous adventure  of  my  life." 

"I  've  never  regarded  putting  one  foot  before  an- 
other in  that  light,"  he  said  with  a  laugh.  Then  sud- 
denly realizing  what  he  had  said,  he  felt  a  wave  of 
pity  and  love  surge  through  his  heart.  What  child 
of  man  assured  of  a  bird's  power  of  flight  would 
not  be  thrilled  at  the  prospect  of  winging  his  way 
through  space?  It  would  be  indeed  a  glorious  ad- 
venture. 

"My  poor  darling!"  said  he,  very  tenderly. 

As  usual,  she  disclaimed  the  pity.  There  was  no 
one  happier  than  herself  in  the  wide  universe. 

"But  I  often  have  wondered  what  it  would  feel 
like." 

"To  walk?" 

"Yes.  To  have  the  power  of  moving  yourself  from 
one  place  to  another.  It  seems  so  funny.  Of  course 
I  did  walk  once,  but  I  've  forgotten  all  about  it.  They 
tell  me  I  shall  have  to  learn  from  the  beginning,  just 
like  a  little  baby." 


1 68  STELLA   MARIS 

"You  '11  have  to  learn  lots  of  things  from  the  be- 
ginning*," said  John,  rather  sadly. 

"What  kind  of  things?" 

"All  sorts." 

"Tell  me,"  she  insisted,  for  ever  so  small  a  cloud 
passed  over  his  face. 

"Taking-  your  place  as  a  woman  in  the  whirl  of 
life,"  said  he. 

She  turned  on  him  the  look  of  untroubled  sapience 
that  proceeds  from  the  eyes  of  child  saints  in  early 
Italian  paintings. 

"I  don't  think  that  will  be  very  difficult,  Beloved- 
est.  I  'm  not  quite  a  little  ignoramus,  and  Aunt  Julia 
has  taught  me  manners.  I  have  always  been  able  to 
talk  to  people  when  sick,  and  I  don't  see  why  I  should 
be  afraid  of  them  when  I  'm  well.  I  Ve  thought  quite 
a  lot  about  it,  and  talked  to  Aunt  Julia." 

"And  what  does  she  say?" 

"She  assures  me,"  she  cried  gaily,  "that  I  am  bound 
to  make  a  sensation  in  society." 

"You  '11  have  all  mankind  at  your  feet,  dear,"  said 
John.  "But,"  he  added  in  a  change  of  tone,  "I  was 
referring  to  more  vital  things  than  success  in  draw- 
ing-rooms." 

She  laid  her  hand  lightly  on  his. 

"Do  you  know,  Belovedest,  what  Walter  said  some 
time  ago?  He  said  that  if  I  looked  at  the  world  and 
saw  God  through  it,  all  would  be  well." 

"I  can  add  nothing  more  to  that,"  said  John,  and, 
thinking  that  Herold  had  been  warning  her  of  dan- 
gers, held  his  peace  for  the  occasion. 

Then  there  came  a  day,  not  long  afterward,  when 
she  made  the  speech  which  in  some  form  or  other  he 
had  been  expecting  and  dreading. 

"The  next  glorious  adventure  will  be  when  you 
take  me  over  the  palace." 


STELLA   MARIS  169 

He  laughed  awkwardly.  "I  remember  telling  you 
that  the  palace  has  run  to  seed." 

"But  you  still  live  in  it." 

"No,  dear,"  said  he. 

"Oh!"  said  Stellamaris  in  a  tone  of  deep  disap- 
pointment. "Oh,  why,  why?" 

John  felt  ridiculously  unhappy.  She  believed,  after 
all,  in  the  incredible  fairy-tale. 

"Perhaps  it  was  n't  such  a  gorgeous  palace  as  I 
made  out,"  he  confessed  lamely.  "As  the  cooks  say, 
my  hand  was  rather  heavy  with  the  gold  and  marble." 

She  laughed,  to  his  intense  relief.  "I  have  felt 
since  that  there  was  a  little  poetic  exaggeration  some- 
where. But  it  must  be  a  beautiful  place,  all  the 
same."  His  spirits  sank  again.  "I  could  walk  about 
it  blindfold,  although  we  have  n't  talked  of  it  for  so 
long.  Who  is  living  there  now?" 

"I  've  sold  it,  dear,  to  some  king  of  the  Cannibal 
Islands,"  he  declared  in  desperate  and  ponderous  jest. 

"So  there's  no  more  palace?" 

"No  more,"  said  he. 

"I  'm  sorry,"  said  Stellamaris — "so  sorry."  She 
smiled  at  him,  but  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes.  "I 
was  looking  forward  so  to  seeing  it.  You  see,  dear, 
I  've  lived  in  it  for  such  a  long,  long  time !" 

"There  are  hundreds  of  wonder-houses  for  you  to 
see  when  you  get  strong,"  said  John,  by  way  of  con- 
solation, yet  hating  himself. 

"Westminster  Abbey  and  Windsor  Castle,  and  so 
on.  Yes,"  said  Stella,  "but  they  've  none  of  them 
been  part  of  me." 

So  he  discovered  that,  at  one-and-twenty,  on  the  eve 
of  her  entrance  into  the  world  of  reality,  the  being 
most  sacred  to  him  still  dwelt  in  her  Land  of 
Illusion.  Two  or  three  frank  words  would  have  been 
enough  to  bring  down  to  nothingness  the  baseless 


170  STELLA    MARIS 

fabric  of  his  castle  in  the  air,  his  palace  of  dreams; 
but  he  dreaded  the  shock  of  such  seismic  convulsion. 
He  had  lied  for  years,  putting  all  that  was  godlike  of 
his  imperfect  humanity  into  his  lies,  so  as  to  bring  a 
few  hours'  delight  into  the  life  of  this  fragile  crea- 
ture whom  he  worshiped,  secure  in  the  conviction  that 
the  lies  would  live  for  ever  and  ever  as  vital  truths, 
without  chance  of  detection.  And  now  that  chance, 
almost  the  certainty,  had  come. 

John  Risca  was  a  strong  man,  as  men  count 
strength.  He  faced  the  grim  issues  of  life  un- 
daunted, and  made  his  own  terms.  He  growled  when 
wounded,  but  he  bared  his  teeth  and  snarled  with  de- 
fiance at  his  foes.  In  a  bygone  age  he  would  have 
stood  like  his  Celtic  ancestors,  doggedly  hacking  amid 
a  ring  of  slain  until  the  curtain  of  death  was  drawn 
before  his  blood-shot  eyes  and  he  fell,  idly  smiting  the 
air.  In  the  modern  conflict  in  which,  fortunately,  hu- 
man butchery  does  not  come  within  the  sphere  of  the 
ordinary  man's  activities,  he  could  stand  with  the  same 
moral  constancy.  But  here,  when  it  was  a  mere  ques- 
tion of  tearing  a  gossamer  veil  from  before  a  girl's 
eyes,  his  courage  failed  him.  Such  brute  dealing,  he 
argued,  might  be  salutary  for  common  clay;  but  for 
Stellamaris  it  would  be  dangerous.  Let  knowledge 
of  the  fact  that  there  had  never  been  a  palace  come 
to  her  gradually.  Already  he  had  prepared  the  way. 
Thus  he  consoled  himself,  and,  in  so  doing,  felt  a 
mean  and  miserable  dog. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

STELLA  loved  the  garden,  even  when  autumn 
came  and  flowers  were  rare;  for  still  there 
was  the  gold  and  russet  glory  of  the  trees. 
Also  the  garden  was  a  bit  of  her  Promised  Land ;  the 
road  beyond  the  gate  ran  into  the  heart  of  the  world. 
And  the  open  air  brought  strength.  On  sunny  days 
her  wheel-chair  was  brought  down  and  set  on  a  gravel 
path,  and  there,  wrapped  in  furs,  she  sat,  generally 
alone  save  for  the  old  hound  always  on  guard  beside 
her.  She  read,  and  dreamed  her  innocent  dreams, 
and  looked  up  at  the  ever-novel  canopy  of  the  sky, 
exulting  quietly  in  her  freedom.  Those  around  her 
knew  her  needs  and  gave  her  at  such  times  the  famil- 
iar solitude  which  she  craved. 

"Don't  be  left  alone,  darling,  a  moment  longer  than 
you  want,"  said  Lady  Blount.  "Too  much  of  that 
sort  of  thing  is  n't  good  for  you." 

And  Stella,  trying  to  interpret  herself,  would  re- 
ply, "I  just  want  to  make  friends  with  nature." 

"I  wish  I  could  understand  you,  dear,  like  Walter," 
said  Lady  Blount.  "What  exactly  do  you  mean?" 

Stella  laughed,  and  said  truthfully  that  she  did  not 
know.  Perhaps,  it  was  that,  the  sea  having  taken 
her  to  its  heart,  she  feared  lest  earth  might  not  be  so 
kindly,  and  she  sought  conciliation.  But  such  flutter- 
ings  of  the  spirit  are  not  to  be  translated  into  words. 
A  day  or  two  before  she  had  driven  through  a  glade 
of  blazing  beech,  carpeted  deep  brown,  and  the  shad- 
ows twisted  themselves  into  dim  shapes,  stealing 

171 


172  STELLA   MARIS 

through  the  mystery  of  the  slender  trunks,  and  the 
longing  to  be  left  alone  among  them  and  hear  the 
message  of  the  woodland  had  smitten  her  like  pain. 

One  morning  she  sat  warmly  wrapped  up,  a  fur 
toque  on  her  head,  in  the  pale  autumn  sunshine,  with 
Constable  by  her  side,  when  a  draggled-tailed  woman, 
carrying  a  draggled-bodied  infant,  paused  by  the  front 
gate,  taking  stock  of  the  place  in  the  tramp's  furtive 
way;  and,  spying  the  gracious  figure  of  the  girl  at  a 
turn  of  the  gravel  path,  walked  boldly  in.  Before 
she  had  advanced  half-way,  Constable,  hidden  by 
Stella's  chair,  rose  to  his  feet,  his  ears  cocked,  and 
growled  threateningly.  The  woman  came  to  a  scared 
halt.  Stella  looked  up  and  saw  her.  Quickly  she 
laid  her  hand  on  the  dog's  head,  and  rated  him  for  a 
silly  fellow  and  bade  him  lie  down  and  not  move  till 
she  gave  the  order.  Constable,  like  an  old  dog  who 
knew  his  place,  but  felt  bound  to  protest,  grumblingly 
obeyed.  He  had  lived  for  eleven  years  under  the  fixed 
conviction  that  though  female  tramps  with  babies 
were  permitted  by  some  grotesque  authority  to  wan- 
der on  sufferance  along  the  road,  they  could  enter  the 
gates  of  the  Channel  House  only  under  penalty  of 
instant  annihilation.  His  goddess,  however,  through 
some  extraordinary  caprice  ordaining  them  to  live, 
the  matter  was  taken  out  of  his  hands.  Let  them  live, 
then,  and  see  what  came  of  it.  It  was  beyond  his 
comprehension. 

"Don't  be  afraid,"  cried  Stella  in  her  clear  voice. 
"The  dog  won't  hurt  you." 

"Sure,  Miss?" 

"Quite  sure."  She  smiled  bountiful  assurance. 
The  draggled-tailed  woman  approached.  "What  do 
you  want?" 

The  woman,  battered,  dirty,  and  voluble,  began  the 
tramp's  tale.  She  had  started  from  Dover  and  was 


STELLA   MARTS  173 

bound  for  Plymouth,  where  she  was  to  meet  her  hus- 
band, a  sailor,  whose  ship  would  arrive  to-morrow. 
What  she  had  been  doing  in  Dover,  except  that  she 
had  been  in  'orspital  (which  did  not  account  for  the 
child's  movements),  she  did  not  state.  But  she  had 
slept  under  hedges  since  she  had  started,  and  had  no 
money,  and  a  kind  gentleman,  Gawd  bless  him!  had 
given  her  a  hunk  of  bread  and  cheese  the  day  before, 
and  that  was  all  the  food  they  had  had  for  twenty- 
four  hours. 

As  she  talked,  Stella's  unaccustomed  eyes  gradually 
took  in  the  scarecrow  details  of  her  person:  the 
blowzy  hat,  with  its  broken  feathers ;  the  greasy  ropes 
of  hair;  the  unclean  rags  of  raimenfpttie^roken  and 
shapeless  boots ;  the  huddled  defilement  of  mastering, 
unwholesome  child ;  and  she  began  to  tremble  through 
all  her  body.  For  a  while  the  sense  of  sight  was  so 
overwhelming  in  its  demands  that  she  lost  the  sense 
of  hearing.  What  was  this  creature  of  loathsome 
ugliness  doing  in  her  world  of  beauty?  To  what  race 
did  she  belong?  From  what  planet  had  she  fallen? 
For  what  eccentric  reason  did  she  choose  to  present 
this  repulsive  aspect  to  mankind? 

At  last,  when  her  sight  was  more  or  less  famil- 
iarized with  the  spectacle  of  squalor,  the  significance 
of  the  woman's  words  came  to  her  as  to  one  awaking 
from  a  dream. 

"Not  a  bit  of  food  has  passed  my  lips  since  yester- 
day at  twelve  o'clock,  Miss,  and  Gawd  strike  me  dead, 
Miss,  if  I  ain't  telling  the  blessed  truth." 

"But  why  have  n't  you  bought  food  ?"  asked  Stella. 

The  woman  stared  at  her.  How  could  she  under- 
stand Stellamaris? 

"I  have  n't  a  penny  in  the  world,  Miss.  The  day 
afore  yesterday  a  lady  give  me  twopence,  and  I  spent 
it  in  milk  for  the  child.  S'welp  me,  I  did,  Miss." 


174  STELLA    MARIS 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  said  Stella,  whose  face 
had  grown  tense  and  white,  "that  it  's  impossible  for 
you  to  get  food  for  yourself  and  your  baby?" 

"Indeed  I  do,  Miss." 

"That  the  two  of  you  might  die  of  starvation?" 

"We  're  a-dying  of  it  now,  Miss,"  said  the  woman. 

God  knows  that  she  lied.  The  tramp's  life  is  not 
a  path  of  roses,  and  it  is  not  one  suitable  for  the  rear- 
ing of  tender  babes,  and  the  fact  of  its  possibility  is 
a  blot  on  our  civilization;  but  the  hard-bitten  vaga- 
bond of  the  highroad  has  his  or  her  well-defined 
means  of  livelihood.  This  was  a  mistress  of  mump- 
ery.  She  had  passed  the  night  in  the  comfortable 
casual  ward  of  a  workhouse  five  miles  away,  and  had 
slept  the  dead  sleep  of  the  animal,  and  she  and  her 
baby  had  started  the  day  with  a  coarse,  though  sus- 
taining, meal.  She  was  wandering  on  and  on,  aim- 
lessly from  workhouse  to  workhouse,  as  she  had  wan- 
dered from  infancy,  begging  a  sixpence  here,  and  a 
plate  of  victuals  there,  impeded  in  her  stray-cat  free- 
dom only  by  the  brat  in  her  arms,  yet  fiercely  fond 
of  it  and  regardful  of  its  needs.  She  was  a  phe- 
nomenon that  in  our  civilization  ought  not  to  exist. 
She  was  acquainted  with  hunger  and  thirst  and  priva- 
tion; she  was  anything  of  misery  that  you  like  to  de- 
scribe; but  she  was  not  dying  or  likely  to  die  of 
starvation. 

The  sociology  of  the  tramp,  however,  was  leagues 
outside  the  knowledge  of  Stellamaris.  She  looked  at 
the  woman  in  awful  horror  until  her  delicate  face 
seemed  to  fade  into  a  pair  of  great  God-filled  eyes. 

"And  you  have  no  roof  to  shelter  you  from  the 
cold  and  rain  ?" 

After  the  manner  of  her  kind  the  woman  assured 
her  that  such  was  the  fact.  She  put  her  head  on  one 
side,  wheedling  in  the  time-honoured  way. 


STELLA    MARIS  175 

"If  you  would  help  a  poor  woman  with  a  shilling 
or  two,  kind  lady — " 

"A  shilling  or  two?"  Stella's  voice  broke  into  a 
cracked  falsetto.  "You  shall  have  pounds  and 
pounds.  I  '11  see  that  you  don't  die  of  starvation.  I 
have  no  money  to  give  you, — I  've  scarcely  ever  seen 
any, — but  I  have  thousands  of  pounds  in  the  house, 
and  you  shall  have  them  all.  If  I  could  only  walk,  I 
would  ask  some  one  to  fetch  them  to  you.  But  I 
can't  walk.  I  've  never  been  able  to  walk  all  my  life. 
You  see,  I  'm  tied  here  till  my  maid  comes  for  me. 
What  can  I  do?"  She  wrung  her  hands,  desperately, 
stirred  to  the  roots  of  her  being. 

"Never  walked?"  said  the  woman,  taken  aback,  the 
elementary  human  fact  appealing  more  to  her  dulled 
senses  than  the  phantasmagorical  promise  of  wealth. 
"Lor'!  Poor  young  lady!  I  'd  sooner  be  as  I  am, 
Miss,  than  not  be  able  to  walk.  And  such  a  sweet 
young  lady!"  Then  the  gleam  of  the  divine  being 
spent,  she  said,  "Can't  you  call  anybody,  Miss  ?" 

But  there  was  no  need  to  call  anybody;  for  one  of 
the  maids,  having  caught  sight  of  the  intruder  through 
a  window  of  the  house,  came  flying  down  the  path, 
a  protecting  flutter  of  apron-strings. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  coming  in  here  ?  Go  away 
at  once!  We  have  nothing  to  do  with  tramps.  Be 
off  with  you!" 

She  was  breathless,  excited,  indignant. 

"Hold  your  tongue,  Mary!"  cried  Stella  in  a  tone 
so  unfamiliar  that  it  petrified  the  simple  maid.  "How 
dare  you  interfere  between  me  and  the  person  I  am 
talking  to?"  It  must  be  remembered  that  Stella  was 
of  mortal  clay.  She  had  her  faults,  like  the  rest  of 
us.  She  was  born  and  bred  a  princess,  an  autocrat,  a 
despot,  a  tyrant.  And  here  was  one  of  the  white-hot 
moments  of  life  when  the  princess  was  the  princess 


176  STELLA    MARIS 

and  the  tyrant  the  tyrant.  The  new  commotion 
brought  the  old  dog  again  to  his  feet.  For  the  only 
time  in  her  life  she  struck  him  in  anger,  though  physi- 
cally he  felt  it  as  much  as  the  fall  of  an  autumn  leaf. 

"Down,  Constable,  down!"  And  turning  to  the 
maid :  "Wheel  my  chair  into  the  drawing-room  and 
ask  Lady  Blount  to  come  to  me.  You  follow  us!" 
she  commanded  the  tramp. 

The  bewildered  Mary  obeyed.  The  procession  was 
formed:  Stella,  in  her  chair;  Mary;  Constable,  head 
down,  wondering  like  an  old  dog  at  the  queer,  new- 
fangled ways  of  the  world;  and  the  bedraggled 
woman,  with  her  pallid  and  staring  baby. 

The  chair  was  wheeled  across  the  threshold  of  the 
drawing-room.  The  tramp  paused  irresolute.  Bid- 
den to  enter  and  sit  down,  she  chose  a  straight-backed 
chair  near  the  door.  Mary  sped  to  fetch  her  mistress 
to  deal  with  the  appalling  situation.  In  a  moment  or 
two  Lady  Blount  hurried  in.  The  woman  rose  and 
sketched  a  vague  curtsy. 

Lady  Blount  began: 

"My  darling  Stella—" 

But  Stella  checked  her,  stretching  out  passionate 
hands. 

"Aunt  Julia,  give  me  two  or  three  thousand  pounds 
at  once,  please,  please!" 

"My  dear,  what  for  ?"  asked  the  amazed  lady. 

"To  give  to  this  poor  woman.  She  and  her  baby 
are  dying  of  starvation.  They  are  dressed  in  rags. 
They  have  no  home.  It  's  dreadful,  horrible!  Can 
you  conceive  it?" 

Lady  Blount  turned  to  the  woman. 

"Go  round  to  the  kitchen  entrance,  and  they  will 
give  you  some  food.  I  '11  see  you  myself  later." 

The  woman  thanked  her  and  blessed  her,  and  dis- 
appeared. 


STELLA   MARIS  177 

"My  dearest,"  said  Lady  Blount,  gently,  "you  can't 
give  such  people  vast  sums  of  money." 

"Why  not  ?  She  has  none.  We  have  a  lot.  How 
can  we  live  in  comfort  when  she  and  her  baby  are 
wandering  about  penniless.  They  will  die.  Don't 
you  understand?  They  will  die." 

"We  can't  provide  for  them  for  the  rest  of  their 
lives,  dear." 

"But  we  must,"  she  cried.  "How  can  you  be  so 
cruel?" 

"Cruel  ?  My  dearest,  if  I  give  her  a  plate  of  food, 
and  some  milk  for  the  baby,  and  send  her  away  with 
a  shilling,  she  will  be  hugely  delighted.  A  woman 
like  that  is  not  a  very  deserving  object  for  charity." 

Stella's  bosom  rose  and  fell,  and  she  regarded  Lady 
Blount  in  sudden,  awful  surmise. 

"Auntie  darling,  what  do  you  mean?  Why  are  n't 
you  horrified?" 

"She  's  only  a  tramp.  Neither  she  nor  the  baby  is 
going  to  die  of  starvation.  And,  darling,  you  must  n't 
let  folks  like  that  come  near  you.  Goodness  knows 
what  horrible  diseases  they  may  be  suffering  from." 

"But  that  makes  it  all  the  worse.  If  she  is  ill, 
we  must  help  her  to  get  well." 

"My  poor  innocent  lamb,"  said  Lady  Blount,  "there 
are  thousands  like  her.  They  are  the  dregs  of  our 
civilization.  We  could  n't  possibly  keep  them  all  in 
luxury,  could  we?  Now,  don't  be  distressed,  dear," 
she  added,  bending  down  and  kissing  the  girl's  cheek. 
"I  '11  go  and  have  a  word  with  the  woman.  I  '11  treat 
her  quite  generously,  for  your  sake,  you  may  be  as- 
sured." 

She  smiled,  and  went  out  of  the  room,  leaving 
Stella  crushed  beneath  an  avalanche  of  knowledge. 
Filthy,  starving  shreds  of  humanity  were  common  ob- 
jects in  the  beautiful  world — so  common  as  to  arouse 


178  STELLA    MARIS 

little  or  no  compassion  in  the  hearts  of  kind  women 
like  the  maid  Mary  and  her  Aunt  Julia.  All  they  had 
thought  of  was  of  her,  Stella,  her  danger  and  possible 
contamination.  Toward  the  woman  they  were  cal- 
lous, almost  cruel.  What  did  it  mean?  Her  chival- 
rous anger  died  down;  reaction  came.  She  looked 
about  her  beautiful  world  piteously,  and  then  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life  she  wept  tears  of  bitter  sorrow. 

They  told  her  afterward  of  the  tramp's  wayward, 
wandering  life,  of  the  various  charities  that  existed 
for  the  regeneration  of  such  people,  of  the  free  hos- 
pitals for  the  sick,  of  the  workhouse  system,  and  they 
gave  her  John  Risca's  famous  little  book  to  read. 
Eventually  she  was  convinced  that  it  was  quixotic 
folly  to  bestow  a  fortune  on  the  first  beggar  that 
came  along,  and  she  acquitted  her  aunt  of  cruelty. 
But  a  cloud  hung  heavy  for  a  long  time  over  her 
spirits,  and  a  stain  soiled  the  beauty  of  the  garden, 
so  that  it  never  more  was  the  perfect  paradise.  And, 
henceforward,  when  she  drove  through  the  streets  of 
the  great  watering-place  near  by,  and  through  the  vil- 
lages which  still  held  something  of  their  summer  en- 
chantment, her  eyes  were  opened  to  sights  of  sorrow 
and  pain  to  which  they  had  been  happily  blind  before. 

Winter  came,  and  the  routine  of  her  life  went  on, 
despite  revolutionary  changes  of  habit.  Her  heart 
had  learned  not  to  be  affected  by  the  transition  from 
the  prone  to  the  sitting  posture.  No  longer  did  be- 
holders realize  her  as  nothing  but  a  head  and  neck 
and  graceful  arms,  and  no  longer  was  a  dressing- 
jacket  the  only  garment  into  which  she  could  throw 
her  girlish  coquetry.  Her  hair  was  done  up  on  the 
top  of  her  head  in  the  manner  prescribed  by  fashion, 
and  she  wore  the  whole  raiment  of  womankind. 

John,  when  he  first  saw  her  reclining  in  her  invalid 
chair,  dressed  in  a  soft  gray  ninon  gown,  a  gleam  of 


STELLA   MARIS  179 

silk  stocking  peeping  between  the  hem  and  a  dainty 
shoe,  hung  back  for  a  second  or  two  from  a  feeling 
of  shyness.  It  was  a  shock  to  find  that  Stella  had 
feet  like  anybody  else,  and  very  prettily  shaped,  ador- 
able little  feet.  It  seemed  almost  indelicate  to  look  at 
them,  as  it  would  be  to  inspect  too  curiously  the  end 
of  a  mermaid's  tail.  She  held  out  both  hands  to  greet 
him,  laughing  and  blushing. 

"How  do  you  like  me?"  she  asked. 

The  lights  of  the  drawing-room  were  dim,  and  the 
firelight  danced  caressingly  over  her  young  beauty. 

"I  've  never  seen  anything  so  lovely,"  said  John, 
looking  at  her  in  stupid  admiration  until  her  eyes 
dropped  in  confusion. 

"I  did  n't  mean  me,  you  silly  Belovedest.  I  meant 
my  new  dress,  my  general  get-up.  Don't  you  think 
it''s  pretty?" 

"I  do,"  said  John,  fervently. 

But  what  cared  he,  or  what  would  have  cared  any 
man  worth  the  name  of  man,  for  the  details  of  her 
feminine  upholstery,  when  the  revelation  of  her  com- 
plete deliciousness  burst  upon  him?  It  was  then  that 
he  realized  her  as  woman.  It  was  from  that  moment 
that  she  haunted  his  dreams  not  as  Stellamaris,  star 
of  the  sea,  child  of  cloud  and  mystery,  but  as  a  sweet 
and  palpitating  wonder  in  a  marvel  of  flesh  and  blood. 

Despite  dangers,  and  through  the  stress  of  tradi- 
tion, the  Unwritten  Law  still  prevailed.  The  episode 
of  the  tramp  caused  her  to  ask  many  questions;  but 
they  answered  them  discreetly.  Even  when  she  grew 
strong  enough  to  take  her  active  share  in  the  world's 
doings  her  life  would  still  be  a  sheltered  one.  Knowl- 
edge would  come  gradually  and  unconsciously.  Why 
wantonly  give  her  the  shocks  of  pain?  But  even  a 
guarded  house  and  garden  could  not  be  the  sanctuary 
of  the  sea-chamber.  Breaths  of  evil  and  sighs  of  sor- 


180  STELLA    MARIS 

rowful  things  come  on  the  winds  of  the  earth  into 
most  of  the  habitations  of  man.  The  newsboy  alone 
flings  into  every  household  his  reeking  record  of  sin. 
This  last  did  not  penetrate  into  the  sea-chamber;  but 
lying  about  the  rooms,  it  could  not  escape  a  girl's 
natural  curiosity. 

"Young  ladies  don't  read  newspapers,  dear,"  said 
Lady  Blount,  asking  Heaven's  forgiveness  for  her  lie. 

"Why?"    A  natural  question. 

"They  contain  accounts  of  things  which  are  not  fit 
reading  for  young  girls." 

Stella  pondered  over  this  reason  for  some  time ;  but 
one  day  she  said : 

"I  am  no  longer  a  young  girl.  I  am  a  grown-up 
woman.  I  want  to  know  what  the  world  is  like.  I 
hear  every  one  talking  of  parliament  and  politics  and 
foreign  countries,  and  I  am  ignorant  of  it  all,  my 
dear  Exquisite  Auntship.  I  have  a  right  to  know 
everything  about  life.  You  must  let  me  read  the 
newspapers." 

"Well,  wait  just  a  little,  dearest,"  said  Lady  Blount. 

And  the  next  time  John  Risca  and  Walter  Herold 
came  down,  she  took  counsel  of  them,  and  they  re- 
luctantly agreed  that  no  longer  could  the  old  regime 
of  the  Unwritten  Law  be  enforced.  Stella  must  have 
her  newspaper.  Thenceforward,  every  morning,  the 
portentous  package  of  "The  Times"  (none  of  your 
sensational  half-penny  shockers!)  was  laid  upon 
Stella's  lap,  and  she  read,  poor  child,  the  foreign 
news,  and  the  leaders,  and  all  the  solemn  and  harm- 
less and  unimportant  matters  in  big  print  until  she 
yawned  her  pretty  head  off,  in  vast  disappointment 
with  newspapers.  It  all  seemed  to  her  ingenuous 
mind  such  a  wordy  fuss  about  nothing.  Still,  she 
read  conscientiously  about  tariff  reform  and  naval 
armaments  and  female  suffrage  and  the  pronounce- 


STELLA   MARTS  181 

ments  of  the  German  Emperor  and  home  rule  for  Ire- 
land, in  the  puzzled  assurance  that  thereby  she  was 
fitting  herself  for  her  future  place  in  the  great 
world. 

But  one  day  Lady  Blount,  going  into  the  pleasant 
morning  room  where  Stella  now  usually  had  her  be- 
ing, found  her  sitting  with  tragic  face,  staring  out  of 
the  window,  the  decorous  "Times"  lying  a  tousled, 
crumpled  mass  on  the  floor.  She  was  alarmed. 

"Darling,  what  's  the  matter?" 

"Oh,  it  's  hateful !  It  's  unthinkable !  Why  did  n't 
you  tell  me  that  such  things  happened  nowadays?" 

"What  things?" 

Stella  pointed  to  the  outraged  organ  of  British  re- 
spectability. 

"A  day  or  two  ago — it  's  all  true  that  's  in  the 
newspaper,  is  n't  it?  It  's  not  made  up?  It  all  hap- 
pens?— a  day  or  two  ago,  while  we  were  laughing- 
here,  a  man  took  a  knife  and  killed  his  wife  and  three 
children.  It 's  incredible  that  there  can  be  such  mon- 
sters in  the  world." 

"My  darling,  when  you  know  a  little  more,"  fal- 
tered Lady  Blount,  "you  will  learn  that  there  are 
abnormal  people  who  do  these  dreadful  things  and 
get  reported  in  the  newspapers.  But  they  have 
nothing  to  do  with  us.  You  must  n't  be  frightened. 
We  never  come  across  them.  Our  life  is  quite  dif- 
ferent." 

"But  what  does  that  matter?"  cried  the  girl,  with 
agonized  eyes.  "They  exist.  They  are  among  us, 
whether  we  happen  to  meet  them  or  not.  They  are 
like  the  tramps." 

The  world-worn  woman,  lined  and  faded,  her  red 
.hair  turned  almost  gray  now,  put  her  arms  around 
the  girl,  and  sought  physically  to  bring  the  comfort 
that  her  intelligence  was  not  acute  enough  to  convey 


1 82  STELLA    MARIS 

in  speech.  Stella  hid  her  face  against  the  kind  bosom 
and  sobbed. 

"Auntie  dear,  I  'm  frightened,  so  frightened!" 

"Of  what,  darling?" 

"Of  ugliness  and  wickedness  and  horror." 

"Nothing  of  that,  dear,  can  ever  come  our  way. 
It  does  n't  come  the  way  of  decent  folk.  People  like 
us  don't  have  anything  to  do  with  that  side  of  life." 

Stella  still  sobbed.  The  words  brought  no  convic- 
tion. Lady  Blount  continued  her  unenlightened  con- 
solation. Let  the  precious  ostrich  stick  her  head  in  a 
bush,  and  that  which  she  could  not  see  could  by  no 
chance  happen. 

"But  men  are  out  there — "  she  waved  her  arm 
vaguely — "who  kill  women  and  little  children." 

"But  we  never  meet  the  men,"  cried  poor  Lady 
Blount,  insistently.  "Our  lives  are  free  from  all 
that." 

She  preached  her  narrow  gospel.  There  was  a  class 
of  beings  in  the  world  who  did  all  kinds  of  ferocious, 
criminal,  cruel,  mean,  and  vulgar  things;  but  they 
were  a  class  apart.  In  the  world  in  which  she  herself 
and  Stella  and  John  and  Walter  dwelt  all  was  beauty 
and  refinement.  Stella  dried  her  eyes.  At  one-and- 
twenty  one  cannot  weep  forever.  She  allowed  herself 
to  be  half  persuaded  of  the  truth  of  her  Aunt  Julia's 
sophistries.  But  the  little,  impish  devil  who  stage- 
manages  the  comedies  of  life  arranged  a  day  or  two 
afterward  a  sardonic  situation. 

It  was  the  mildest  of  December  mornings.  Old 
Autumn  humped  a  brave  and  kindly  shoulder  against 
Winter's  onrush.  A  faint  south-west  wind  crept 
warmly  over  the  Channel,  and  sweet  odours  came  from 
the  moist,  unsmitten  earth.  A  pale  sun  clothed  the 
nakedness  of  the  elms  and  chestnuts  in  the  garden, 
and  brightened  to  early  spring  beauty  the  laurels  and 


STELLA    MARIS  183 

firs.  Stella,  with  Constable  near  by,  sat  in  the  sun- 
shine, by  the  ivy-clad  north-eastern  front  of  the  old 
Channel  House,  and  her  chair  was  beneath  the  win- 
dow of  the  morning  room.  Now  that  she  could  sit 
upright,  she  had  learned  to  use  her  hands  in  many 
ways.  She  could  knit.  She  was  knitting  now, 
vaguely  and  tremulously  hoping  that  the  result  might 
be  a  winter  waistcoat  for  her  Great  High  Belovedest, 
intent  on  her  counting,  one,  two,  three,  four,  pearl 
one,  when  suddenly  voices  in  altercation  broke  upon 
her  ear. 

It  was  merely  an  unhappy,  ignoble  quarrel  such 
as  for  many  years  had  marred  that  house  of  sweet- 
seeming.  Fierce  hatred  and  uncharitableness  were 
unchained  and  sped  their  clamorous  and  disastrous 
way.  Bitter  words  uttered  in  strident  and  unnatural 
tones  wounded  the  quiet  air.  The  woman  lost  her 
dignity  in  vain  recrimination.  The  man  snarled  sav- 
age and  common  oaths.  Suddenly  the  door  slammed 
violently,  and  there  was  the  silence  of  death.  The 
scene  had  lasted  only  a  few  moments.  Sir  Oliver,  in 
his  foolish  anger,  had  evidently  followed  his  wife 
into  the  morning  room  and  left  her  abruptly.  But 
the  few  moments  were  enough  for  Stella,  who  had 
heard  everything.  Her  heart  seemed  frost-bitten,  and 
her  blood  turned  to  ice. 

The  cruel,  vulgar,  and  hideous  things  of  life  were 
not  the  appanages  of  a  class  apart.  They  entered 
into  her  own  narrowed  world.  Her  beautiful  world! 
Her  hateful,  horrible  terror  of  a  world ! 


CHAPTER    XIV 

IN  midwinter  the  shadow  that  hung  over  John 
gathered  into  storm-cloud. 
Miss  Lindon,  in  pathetic  despair,  had  aban- 
doned her  notion  of  turning  Unity  into  a  young  lady 
of  young-ladylike  accomplishments.  She  could  per- 
form whatever  marvels  of  exquisite  sewing  Miss 
Lindon  could  imagine,  but  there  her  proficiency  in  the 
elegances  came  to  an  end.  The  girl's  tastes,  Miss 
Lindon  lamented,  were  so  plebeian!  She  would 
sooner  make  puddings  than  afternoon  calls ;  she  would 
sooner  sweep  and  dust  and  polish  than  read  instruc- 
tive or  entertaining  literature.  In  her  child-of-the- 
people's  practical  way,  she  had  ousted  Miss  Lindon 
from  the  management  of  the  household,  thereby  com- 
ing into  conflict  with  the  stern  Phcebe,  no  longer 
feared,  who  hitherto  had  carried  out,  according  to  her 
own  fancy,  the  kind  lady's  nebulous  directions.  Miss 
Lindon  sighed,  and  surrendered  her  keys,  inwardly 
thankful  to  be  relieved  of  crushing  responsibilities. 
She  had  never  known  how  to  order  dinner  for  John. 
If,  after  agonized  searching,  she  had  decided  on  lamb, 
and  sweet  peas  and  grouse  and  asparagus,  it  was  only 
to  be  told  that  some  or  all  of  them  were  out  of  sea- 
son. And  she  could  never  check  the  laundry-list,  so 
eternally  mysterious  were  the  garments  worn  by  man. 
Unity  was  a  born  economist.  As  soon  as  she  took 
over  the  seals  of  office,  she  abolished  the  easy  and  ex- 
pensive system  of  tradesmen  calling  for  orders.  She 

184 


STELLA    MARIS  185 

herself  marketed,  and  that  was  her  great  joy.  Every 
day  she  took  her  market-bag  and  busied  herself  among 
the  shops  in  the  Kilburn  High  Road,  choosing  her 
meat  with  an  uncanny  sureness  of  vision,  knocking 
extortionate  pennies  off  the  prices  of  vegetables,  and 
seeing  generally  that  she  had  good  value  for  her 
money.  Miss  Lindon,  accompanying  her  on  one  or 
two  of  these  excursions,  was  shocked  and  scared  at 
her  temerity.  How  dared  she  talk  like  that  to  the 
greengrocer?  Unity  replied  that  she  would  talk  to 
him  until  he  did  n't  know  himself  if  he  gave  her  any 
more  of  his  nonsense.  She  was  n't  going  to  allow  her 
guardian  to  be  robbed  by  any  of  them,  not  she;  she 
was  up  to  all  their  tricks. 

"I  suppose  you  thought  that  was  a  good  lettuce, 
Auntie  ?" 

"I  am  no  judge,  dear,"  said  Miss  Lindon;  "but 
surely  you  ought  n't  to  have  hurt  his  feelings  by  say- 
ing that  its  proper  place  was  the  dust-bin,  and  not  a 
respectable  shop." 

"He  understands  me  all  right,"  laughed  Unity. 

All  the  tradesmen  did,  and  they  respected  the 
shrewdness  of  the  businesslike  little  plebeian,  whom 
they  recognized  and  treated  as  one  of  their  own 
class;  and  Unity  saved  her  beloved  guardian  many 
shillings  a  week,  which  was  a  matter  of  proud  grati- 
fication. She  held  her  head  high  nowadays.  She  had 
found  herself. 

Once  chatting  casually  with  Herold,  John  said  with 
the  air  of  Sir  Oracle: 

"Unity  has  got  quite  a  strong  character." 

Herold  laughed.  "Did  n't  I  tell  you  so  nearly  three 
years  ago?  You  would  n't  believe  me." 

"You  talked  some  nonsense  about  love,"  growled 
John. 

"Well,  have  n't  you  given  it  to  her  in  your  bearish 


1 86  STELLA    MARIS 

\vay?  What  would  you  do  in  this  house  without 
her?  You  'd  be  utterly  miserable." 

"I  suppose  I  should,"  said  John.  "But  I  wish  you 
would  get  out  of  the  infernal  habit  of  always  being 
in  the  right." 

One  afternoon — it  was  the  Saturday  before  Christ- 
mas— Unity  took  the  market-bag  and  went  out  to  do 
her  shopping.  Evening  had  fallen  on  a  thin,  black 
fog.  The  busy  thoroughfare  was  a  bewildering  fusion 
of  flare  and  gloom.  The  Christmas  crowd,  eager  to 
purchase  or  to  gladden  their  eyes  with  good  things  un- 
purchaseable, thronged  the  pavements — an  ordinary 
crowd  of  middle-class  folk,  careless  of  the  foggy  air, 
enjoying  the  Christmas  promise  in  shops  almost  vul- 
garly replete.  A  hundred  resetted  carcasses  in  a 
butcher's  shop  where  ten  hung  the  day  before  is  mar- 
vel enough  to  attract  the  comfortable  loiterer,  and  the 
happy  butcher's  "Buy!  Buy!"  as  he  stands  in  a  blaze 
of  light  sharpening  his  knife,  is  an  attraction  pecu- 
liarly fascinating.  What  with  the  stream  entering 
and  issuing  from  shops,  the  wedges  of  loiterers  glued 
to  shop  windows,  the  two  main  currents  of  saunter- 
ers,  progress  was  difficult.  In  the  murky  roadway 
motor-omnibuses  and  carts  flashed  mysteriously  by  in 
endless  traffic.  All  was  uproar  and  ant-heap  confu- 
sion. 

Unity,  resolute,  squat  little  figure,  made  her  pur- 
chases, and,  having  made  them,  lingered  joyously  in 
the  throbbing  street,  her  hereditary  element.  She  was 
never  so  happy  as  when  rubbing  shoulders  with  her 
kind.  The  whistling  shop-boy  and  the  giggling  work- 
girl  were  her  congeners.  For  the  sake  of  her  guard- 
ian and  Aunt  Gladys  she  never  spoke  to  such  ungen- 
teel  persons,  but  in  their  swiftly  passing  company  she 
had  a  sense  of  comfort  and  comradeship.  Often  she 
went  out  without  knowing  why.  The  street  called  her. 


STELLA    MARIS  187 

The  sights  and  sounds  of  it  provided  an  ever-chang- 
ing, ever-exciting  drama.  A  street  accident,  a  fallen 
horse,  a  drunken  man,  held  her  fascinated.  And  to- 
night the  abnormal  life  of  the  street  afforded  an  extra 
thrill  of  exhilaration;  there  was  so  much  to  see.  At 
last  she  found  her  progress  blocked  by  a  crowd  hang- 
ing about  a  confectioner's  window.  She  wormed  her 
way  through,  and  was  rewarded  by  the  enthralling 
spectacle  of  a  huge  clock-work  figure  of  Father 
Christmas,  who  drew  from  his  wallet  the  shop's 
special  plum-pudding  at  ninepence-half penny  a  pound. 
It  was  mighty  fine,  and  Unity  never  heeded  the  toss- 
ing and  buffeting  of  the  admiring  crowd.  The  light 
shone  hard  on  the  ring  of  pink  faces  framed  by  the 
blackness  beyond.  Then  eager  sight-seers  jostled  her 
into  the  background. 

Suddenly  she  felt  a  sharp  and  awful  pain  in  her 
side.  She  shrieked  aloud  and  turned.  The  baffling 
figure  of  a  woman  in  black  hurrying  into  the  maw  of 
the  darkness  met  her  eyes  before  the  startled  crowd 
closed  about  her.  She  put  her  hand  instinctively  to 
the  tortured  spot,  and  drew  out  from  her  flesh  a  long 
hat-pin;  then  she  fainted. 

An  assistant  in  the  shop,  coming  out  to  know  the 
cause  of  the  hubbub,  recognized  her  and  had  her 
brought  indoors.  The  policeman  on  the  beat  soon 
shouldered  his  way  in.  They  put  poor  Unity  on  a 
shutter,  covered  her  with  rugs,  and,  followed  by  a 
tail  of  idlers,  bore  her  to  the  house. 

John  came  home  soon  afterwards  and  found  an  agi- 
tated Aunt  Gladys  in  process  of  being  reassured  by  a 
kindly  doctor  that  Unity  was  not  dead.  The  wound, 
though  ugly  and  painful,  was  little  more  than  flesh 
deep.  The  hat-pin  had  glanced  off  a  corset  bone  and 
penetrated  obliquely.  Straightly  driven,  however,  it 
would  have  been  a  deadly  thrust.  Of  the  murderous 


1 88  STELLA    MARIS 

intent  there  could  hardly  be  any  doubt.  A  sergeant 
of  police  was  also  waiting  for  John ;  but  John  let  him 
wait,  and  rushed  in  his  bull-like  way  upstairs. 

Unity,  who  had  long  since  recovered  consciousness, 
lay  in  bed,  her  wound  tended,  a  cheerful  fire  lit,  and 
Phcebe  in  attendance.  John  dismissed  the  latter  with  a 
gesture  and  flung  himself  on  his  knees  by  the  head  of 
the  bed. 

"My  God!  child,  what  has  happened?" 

For  all  the  difference  of  surroundings, — the  pretty 
room  and  fine  linen, — the  common  little  face  on  the 
pillow  was  singularly  like  that  which  he  had  seen  in 
the  orphanage  infirmary.  But  there  was  a  deeper  trust 
in  the  girl's  eyes,  for  they  were  lit  with  a  flash  of  joy 
at  his  great  distress. 

She  recounted  simply  what  had  occurred. 

"You  saw  the  woman  disappear?" 

"I  think  so.    It  was  all  so  quick." 

It  was  a  woman's  stab.  What  man  would  use  a 
hat-pin?  And  there  could  be  only  one  woman  alive 
who  would  stab  Unity. 

"Did  you  recognize  her?" 

His  voice  was  hoarse,  and  his  rugged  face  full  of 
pain.  She  regarded  him  steadily. 

"No,  Guardian." 

"It  was  not— she?" 

"No,"  said  Unity. 

"Are  you  sure?" 

Unity  clenched  her  hands  and  turned  away,  and  her 
eyes  grew  hard. 

"If  it  was,  I  should  have  known  her." 

John  rose  to  his  feet  and  stood  over  her,  his  arms 
folded,  and  looked  at  her  from  beneath  his  heavy 
brows.  Unity  met  his  gaze.  And  so  they  remained 
for  a  second  or  two,  and  each  knew  that  the  other 
knew  who  had  dealt  the  blow. 


STELLA    MARIS  189 

"It  was  n't  her,"  said  Unity. 

The  words  were  stamped  with  finality.  John,  meet- 
ing the  girl's  set  gaze,  had  a  glimpse  of  rocky  strata 
far  beneath.  No  process  of  question  invented  by 
man  would  induce  her  to  unsay  the  words. 

"There  's  a  police  sergeant  downstairs,"  said  he. 

"I  did  n't  see  no  woman  either,"  said  Unity,  signifi- 
cantly. 

And  John  did  not  notice  her  unusual  relapse  into 
orphanage  speech. 

Soon  afterward  he  left  her  and  joined  the  sergeant 
in  the  hall.  The  policeman  asked  the  stereotyped 
questions.  John  replied  that  Miss  Blake — it  was,  as 
far  as  he  knew,  the  first  time  he  had  given  Unity  her 
full  style  and  title,  and  the  name  sounded  odd  in  his 
ears — that  Miss  Blake  had  seen  nothing  of  her  assail- 
ant and  could  give  no  information  whatever. 

"You  suspect  nobody  ?" 

"Nobody  at  all,"  said  John,  decisively.  "You  need 
n't  trouble  to  pursue  the  matter  any  further,  for  the 
wound  luckily  is  trifling,  and  in  any  case  I  should  not 
prosecute." 

"As  you  please,  sir,"  said  the  Sergeant. 

"Good  evening,  and  thank  you,"  said  John. 

"This  is  the  hat-pin,  sir." 

"You  can  leave  it  with  me,"  said  John. 

He  went  into  his  study  and  examined  the  thing. 
It  was  of  common  make,  the  head  being  a  ball  of' 
black  glass.    A  million  such  are  sold  in  cheap  shops. 

He  had  no  doubt  as  to  the  owner.  She  had  spied 
upon  him  craftily,  bided  her  time,  and  had  then 
struck.  He  had  not  seen  her  since  the  day  they  had 
met  in  Maida  Vale  and  he  had  unceremoniously 
packed  her  home,  and  for  the  last  few  months  she 
had  not  molested  him.  Now  came  this  unforeseen, 
dastardly  attack. 


190  STELLA    MARIS 

He  rang  for  Phoebe,  gave  a  message  for  Miss  Lin- 
don,  and  went  out  with  an  ugly  look  on  his  face.  A 
taxicab  whirled  him  swiftly  across  London  to  Amelia 
Mansions  in  the  Fulham  Road.  Mrs.  Bence  answered 
his  ring.  He  stepped  into  the  hall,  and  in  his  blunder- 
ing way  strode  down  the  passage.  The  woman 
checked  him. 

"Mrs.  Rawlings  is  n't  in,  sir.  She  is  with  Mrs. 
Oscraft,  the  lady  down-stairs." 

He  turned  abruptly. 

"Has  she  been  out  this  afternoon?" 

"She  went  out  to  lunch  with  Mrs.  Oscraft  and 
came  back  with  her  an  hour  ago." 

He  drew  the  hat-pin  from  the  inside  of  his  over- 
coat, where  he  had  stuck  it.  "Do  you  recognize 
this?" 

The  woman  looked  puzzled.    "No,  sir,"  she  said. 

"Mrs.  Rawlings  has  n't  any  like  it?" 

Mrs.  Bence  inspected  the  pin.  "No,  I  'm  sure.  If 
she  had,  I  would  have  known."  She  saw  the  trouble 
in  his  face.  "What  has  happened,  sir?" 

He  told  her  briefly.  The  woman  knitted  a  per- 
plexed brow. 

"I  don't  see  how  it  could  have  been  her,  sir,"  she 
said.  "She's  nearly  always  with  Mrs.  Oscraft,  and 
very  seldom  goes  out  by  herself,  and  to-day,  as  I  've 
said,  she  went  out  and  came  back  with  her.  And  I  'm 
sure  she  has  n't  had  a  hat-pin  like  that  in  use." 

"What  exactly  is  this  Mrs.  Oscraft?"  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Bence  added  to  his  vague  knowledge.  Her 
husband  was  a  book-maker,  very  often  absent  from 
home,  having  to  frequent  race-meetings  and  taverns 
and  other  such  resorts  of  his  trade.  She  had  many 
friends,  male  and  female,  of  the  same  kidney,  a  crew 
rowdy  and  vulgar,  but  otherwise  harmless.  She  and 
Mrs.  Rawlings  had  become  inseparable. 


STELLA   MARIS  191 

"I  '11  go  down  and  see  her,"  said  John. 

Mrs.  Oscraft,  an  overblown  blonde,  floppily  attired, 
opened  the  door  of  her  flat. 

"Hello!    Who  are  you?"  she  asked. 

He  explained  that  he  was  the  husband  of  Mrs. 
Rawlings. 

"So  you  are.  She  's  got  a  portrait  of  you.  Be- 
sides, I  've  seen  you  here.  She  's  in  the  drawing- 
room.  Come  along  in  and  have  a  whisky  and  soda 
or  a  glass  of  champagne." 

He  declined.  "I  owe  you  a  thousand  apologies  for 
intruding,"  said  he,  "but  if  you  would  answer  me  just 
one  question,  I  should  be  greatly  obliged." 

"Fire  away,"  said  the  lady.  "Won't  you  really 
come  in?" 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  John.  "Will  you  tell  me 
where  my  wife  has  been  this  afternoon?" 

"With  me  all  the  time,"  said  Mrs.  Oscraft, 
promptly.  "We  've  been  doing  Christmas  shopping 
in  Kensington  High  Street,  and  only  just  got  back." 

"She  did  n't  go  near  Kilburn?" 

"Lord  bless  you,  no!"  said  the  lady.  "Look  here, 
would  you  like  to  see  her?" 

"No,"  said  John.  He  apologized  again,  and  bade 
her  good  evening.  He  descended  the  stone  stairs 
with  a  bewildered  feeling  that  he  had  made  a  fool  of 
himself;  and  Mrs.  Oscraft,  as  soon  as  the  door  was 
shut,  put  her  thumb  to  her  nose  and  twiddled  her  fin- 
gers in  the  traditional  gesture  of  derision. 

John  went  away  sore  and  angry,  like  a  bull  that, 
charging  at  a  man,  unexpectedly  butts  up  against  a 
stone  wall.  He  had  no  reason  for  disbelieving  Mrs. 
Oscraft,  and  the  hat-pin  was  not  his  wife's.  Yet 
who  but  his  wife  could  have  been  the  aggressor?  It 
might  have  been  an  accident.  It  might  have  been  a 
man — such  cases  are  not  uncommon — with  the  stab- 


192  STELLA    MARIS 

bing  and  cutting  mania.  Unity's  fleeting  glimpse  of 
the  woman  in  black  might  have  been  a  trick  of 
shadow  in  the  lamplit  fog.  Yet  in  the  deed  he  felt 
the  hand  of  the  revengeful  and  cruel  woman.  He 
was  baffled. 

On  his  way  home  he  called  on  Herold,  whom  he 
found  at  dinner. 

"I  shall  never  know  a  moment's  peace  of  mind,"  he 
said  gloomily,  after  they  had  discussed  the  matter, 
"until  she  is  put  under  restraint.  If  she  did  n't  do  it, 
as  you  make  out — "  Herold  held  to  the  theory  that 
a  person  could  not  be  in  two  places,  Kensington 
and  Kilburn,  at  the  same  time — "she  is  quite  capable 
of  it." 

"It  's  a  mercy,"  said  Herold,  "that  you  did  not  see 
her  and  tax  her  with  the  offence,  and  so  put  the  idea 
into  her  head." 

"I  believe  she  did  it  all  the  same,"  said  John,  ob- 
stinately. 

"But  why  should  Mrs.  Oscraft  have  lied?  Mrs. 
Bence  saw  them  go  out  and  come  in  together.  You 
can't  suppose  the  other  woman  was  an  accomplice. 
It  's  absurd." 

"I  know  it  is,"  said  John.  "But  the  absurd  often 
turns  up  in  a  churchwarden's  unhumorous  kit  of  real- 
ity in  this  Bedlam  of  a  world." 

They  argued  until  it  was  time  for  Herold  to  go  to 
his  theatre,  when  John  went  home  and  ate  a  belated 
dinner  in  such  a  black  mood  that  Miss  Lindon  dared 
not  question  him. 

And  that  was  the  end  of  the  matter.  Unity's 
wound  healed  after  a  few  days,  and  sturdily  refusing 
Phoebe's  protection  on  her  walks  abroad,  she  resumed 
her  marketing  in  the  Kilburn  High  Road.  John 
called  on  the  district  inspector  of  police  and  obtained 
the  ready  promise  that  folks  running  amuck  with  hat- 


STELLA    MARTS  195 

pins  should  be  summarily  arrested  and  that  his  house 
and  ward  should  be  placed  under  special  supervision.  < 

It  was  characteristic  of  the  terms  of  dumb  confi- 
dence on  which  John  and  Unity  lived  together  that 
neither  of  them  referred  again  to  the  possible  perpe- 
trator of  the  outrage.  When  she  became  aware  that 
the  policemen  in  this  district  always  kept  her  re- 
spectfully in  sight  and,  on  passing  her,  saluted,  she 
knew  that  her  guardian  had  so  ordained  things.  One 
day  in  the  New  Year  she  entered  his  study,  and  stood 
at  attention. 

"Please,  Guardian,  may  I  have  half-a-crown?" 

He  fished  the  coin  out  of  his  trousers'  pocket  and 
handed  it  to  her. 

"I  don't  want  it  for  myself,"  she  said. 

She  had  her  allowance  for  pin-money,  which  she 
was  too  proud  to  exceed.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she 
hoarded  her  pennies  in  the  top  of  an  old  coffee-pot 
and  out  of  her  savings  bought  not  only  finery  for  her- 
self, but  startling  birthday  and  Christmas  presents  for 
her  guardian  and  Aunt  Gladys.  It  was  astonishing 
what  Unity  could  do  with  elevenpence  three  farth- 
ings. 

John,  knowing  her  ways,  smiled. 

"What  do  you  want  it  for,  then  ?" 

"I  'm  going  to  give  it  to  my  best  policeman,"  she 
said,  and  marched  out  of  the  room. 

That  was  her  only  acknowledgement  of  her  appreci- 
ation of  the  measures  he  had  taken  to  ensure  her 
safety.  He  understood,  and,  when  telling  Herold  of 
the  incident,  called  her,  after  the  loose  way  of  man,  "a 
rum  kid."  Of  the  obvious  he  was  aware,  and  it 
pleased  him;  but  subtler  manifestations  escaped  his 
notice.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  it  was  more 
than  a  pleasing  accident  of  domestic  life  when,  on  let- 
ting himself  into  the  house  with  his  latch-key,  he 


i94  STELLA    MARIS 

should  find  Unity,  drab  and  stolid,  her  cheeks  and 
snub  nose  and  prominent  forehead  shining  in  the  un- 
ladylike way  deplored  by  Miss  Lindon,  as  if  polished 
with  yellow  soap,  and  her  skimpy  hair  bunched  up 
ungracefully,  with  patient,  unchanging  eyes,  awaiting 
him  in  the  little  hall,  her  hands  already  outstretched 
to  take  hat  and  stick  and  to  help  him  off  with  his 
overcoat.  Yet  ninety-nine  times  out  of  a  hundred  it 
happened.  He  did  not  notice  the  orderly  confusion 
wrought  by  the  ingenuity  of  sleepless  nights  out  of 
the  chaos  of  his  study.  Wishes — just  the  poor,  com- 
monplace little  wishes  of  household  life — what  could 
poor,  commonplace  little  Unity,  with  her  limited  soul- 
horizon,  do  more  for  him  ?  wishes  vaguely  formulated 
in  his  mind  he  found  quickly  and  effectively  realized, 
and  worried,  hard-working,  honest  man  that  he  was, 
he  took  the  practical  comforts  sometimes  as  a  matter 
of  course,  now  and  then  with  a  careless  word  of 
thanks,  and  never  dreamed — how  could  he? — of  the 
passionate  endeavour  whereby  these  poor,  common- 
place little  things  came  to  pass. 

There  can  be  as  much  beautiful  expenditure  of  soul 
— as  beautiful  in  the  eyes  of  God,  to  whom,  as  to  any 
philosopher  with  a  working  idea  of  infinity,  the  fall 
of  a  rose-petal  must  be  as  important  as  the  fall  of  an 
empire — in  the  warming  of  a  man's  slippers  before 
the  fire  by  the  woman  who  loves  him  as  in  all  the 
heroisms  of  all  the  Joans  of  Arc  and  the  Charlotte 
Cordays  and  the  window-breaking,  policeman-scratch- 
ing, forcibly  fed  female  martyrs  of  modern  London 
that  have  ever  existed.  It  is  a  proposition  as  incon- 
trovertible as  any  elementary  theorem  of  Euclid  you 
please ;  but  so  essentially  unphilosophic  is  man,  to  say 
nothing  of  woman, — for  a  man  would  sooner  break 
stones,  play  bridge,  go  bankrupt,  slaughter  his  wife 
and  family,  or  wear  a  straw  hat  with  a  frock-coat 


STELLA   MARIS  195 

than  brace  his  mind  to  think — that  this  self-evident 
truth  passes  him  by  unrecognized,  unperceived,  un- 
guessed. 

The  volcanic  forces  of  life — essentially  such  as  act 
and  react  between  man  and  woman — lie  hidden  deep 
down  in  the  soul's  unknown  and  unsuspected  cauldron, 
and  their  outward  manifestations  are  only  here  and 
there  a  puff  of  smoke  so  fine  and  blue  that  it  merges 
at  once  into  the  caressing  air.  The  good,  easy  man 
plants  his  vines  on  the  mountain-side.  The  sky  is 
serene,  the  sun  fills  his  grapes  with  joyousness.  Then 
comes  eruption,  and  the  smiling  slope  is  smitten  into 
the  grin  of  a  black  death's-head. 


WINTER  came  and  melted  into  spring.  Phys- 
ically Stella  had  progressed  beyond  all 
hopes.  Like  the  Lady  in  "The  Sensitive 
Plant,"  she  walked  a  ruling  grace  about  the  garden 
of  the  Channel  House,  and  nursed  the  daffodils  and 
narcissi  and  tulips  with  tender  hands.  In  these  she 
took  a  passionate  joy  curiously  exceeding  that  in  other 
revelations  of  the  great  world.  Indeed,  during  most 
of  the  winter,  she  had  shrunk  from  mingling  with  hu- 
manity. Her  zest  for  the  new  life  had  been  dulled. 
She  found  excuses  for  not  going  beyond  the  garden 
gate,  and  of  her  own  free  will  did  not  seek  the  so- 
ciety of  those  dear  to  her.  The  windows  of  her  sea- 
chamber  once  more  afforded  her  the  accustomed  out- 
look, and  the  gulls  wheeling  high  in  the  wintry  gusts 
again  became  her  companions. 

The  Blqunts  let  her  have  her  way, — was  she  not 
autocrat? — putting  down  her  hesitations  and  cravings 
for  solitude  to  a  young  girl's  delicate  whimsies  of 
which  they  could  not  divine  the  motive;  for  she,  who 
had  once  been  expansive,  now  had  grown  strangely 
reticent  Even  Herold,  who  used  to  accompany  her 
into  the  Land  That  Never  Was,  did  not  gain  her  con- 
fidence. Into  those  mystic  regions  she  could  admit 
him  freely ;  but  the  Threatening  Land  that  lay  beyond 
the  threshold  of  her  sea-chamber  a  heart-gripping  shy- 
ness forced  her  to  tread  alone. 

"Life  has  frightened  you,"  he  said  one  day. 
196 


STELLA    MARIS  197 

"How  do  you  know  that  ?"  she  asked,  with  a  quick 
glance. 

He  smiled. 

"You  are  like  an  ^Eolian  harp  set  in  the  wind,  my 
dear." 

"Only  you  can  hear  it." 

"Every  one  hears  it." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No;  only  you." 

"That  's  as  may  be,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh.  "Any- 
how, something  has  frightened  you.  What  is  it?" 

Stella  rose — she  had  learned  to  walk;  the  hours  of 
her  exercises  had  been  the  gayest  in  her  day — and 
touched  him  lightly  with  her  fingers  on  the  shoulder, 
and  went  and  stood  by  the  great  window  of  the 
drawing-room  and  looked  out  at  her  sky  and  sea. 
The  Great  High  Favourite,  with  his  uncanny  insight, 
had  read  her  truly.  Womanlike,  she  did  not  know 
whether  to  resent  his  surprising  of  her  innermost 
secret  or  to  love  him  for  it.  She  was  understood; 
that  was  balm.  Yet  what  right  had  he  to  under- 
stand? The  question  was  a  drop  of  gall.  The  pure 
spirit  of  her  flew  to  the  chosen  companion  of  her 
dreams;  something — the  nature  of  which  she  was  un- 
aware— sex-instinct — forbade  too  close  an  intimacy  in 
things  real  and  tangible.  And  there  was  a  touch  of 
resentment,  too,  in  an  outer  circle  of  her  mind.  Why 
had  he  given  her  no  warning  of  the  Threatening 
Land?  He  had  allowed  her  to  step  ignorantly  upon 
its  thorns,  and  her  feet  still  bled. 

Herold  turned  in  his  chair  and  glanced  at  her  slim 
figure  framed  by  the  window.  Then  he  went  softly 
to  her  side. 

"Stellamaris,  you  are  dearer  to  me  than  anything 
on  God's  earth.  Tell  me  what  frightens  you.  Maybe 
I  can  help  you." 


:98  STELLA   MARIS 

But  Stella  shook  her  head.  She  had  been  accus- 
tomed from  childhood  to  lavish  terms  of  endearment 
from  her  little  band  of  intimates,  and  her  woman's 
nature  was  as  yet  not  enough  awakened  to  catch  the 
new  and  subtle  appeal.  A  girl's  pride  froze  her.  The 
wounds  that  he  had  allowed  her  to  receive  she  would 
cure  by  herself.  She  touched  his  hand,  however,  to 
show  that  she  appreciated  his  affection.  The  touch 
sent  a  thrill  to  his  heart. 

"Stella,  dear!"  he  whispered. 

Then,  as  a  note  struck  on  a  piano  causes  the  har- 
monic on  the  violin  to  vibrate,  so  did  his  tone  stir  a 
chord  in  the  girl's  nature,  occasioning  an  absurd  little 
flutter  of  trepidation.  She  laughed,  and  threw  wide 
the  folding-doors  that  opened  upon  the  lawn. 

"Don't  let  us  talk  of  bogies  on  such  a  beautiful  day. 
I  want  to  show  you  my  crocuses." 

It  was  her  sovereign  pleasure  to  break  off  the  con- 
versation. He  dared  not  press  her.  She  took  him 
out  among  her  crocuses  and  daffodils,  and  became  the 
Stella  he  had  always  known,  with  the  exception  that 
now  she  dwelt  in  a  spring  flower's  bloom  instead  of 
in  a  bit  of  silver  in  the  flying  scud.  They  talked 
eternal  verities  concerning  the  souls  of  flowers. 

After  this  unsatisfactory  and,  to,  a  certain  extent, 
baffling  visit,  Herold  went  back  to  London  with  a 
heartache,  which  induced  an  unaccustomed  moodiness. 
At  the  theatre  that  night,  Miss  Leonora  Gurney  took 
him  to  task.  Now,  Miss  Gurney  (Mrs.  Hetherington 
in  private  life;  she  had  divorced  the  disreputable 
Hetherington  years  ago,  and  had  not  remarried)  was 
a  very  important  and  captivating  person.  She  was  a 
woman  of  genius,  a  favourite  of  the  London  public,  a 
figure  of  society,  in  management  on  her  own  account, 
wherein  she  showed  shrewd  business  ability,  and  very 
much  in  love  with  Walter  Herold,  wherein  she  showed 


STELLA    MARTS  199 

much  of  the  weakness  of  Eve.  This  season  Herold 
was  her  leading  man. 

To  say  that  Herold  had  wrapped  himself  up  in  his 
Joseph's  garment  (not  the  one  of  many  colours,  but 
the  other  one  equally  famous)  during  all  his  stage  ca- 
reer would  be  mendacious  folly.  Many  a  ball  had 
come  to  him  at  the  bound,  and  he  had  returned  it 
gaily.  He  had  laughed  an  honest  way  through  in- 
numerable love-affairs — things  of  the  moment,  things 
of  the  fancy,  things  of  no  importance  whatsoever. 
Many  maidens,  and  some  matrons,  had  wept  for  him, 
but  none  bitterly.  He  had  established  a  reputation 
for  lack  of  seriousness  in  matters  of  the  heart.  His 
bright,  blue  eyes  would  flash  at  you,  and  his  low, 
musical  voice  would  murmur  no  matter  what,  even 
were  it  the  Lord's  Prayer  backward,  and  you  caught 
your  breath,  and  lost  your  head,  and  were  perfectly 
ready  to  say  if  he  asked  you,  and  sometimes  even  if 
he  did  n't  ask  you:  "Take  me,  I  am  yours."  But 
whatever  he  did,  he  never  rose  to  the  passionate 
height,  or  sank  to  the  unromantic  depth,  of  the  situ- 
ation. Which  things  were  a  mystery. 

To  qualify  what  might  appear  to  be  a  sweeping 
proposition,  it  may  be  stated  that  there  are  certain 
phases  in  certain  women's  lives  when  they  make 
straight  for  the  mystery  surrounding  a  man,  as  moth 
does  for  candle,  and  singe  their  wings  in  so  doing. 
Thus  singed  were  the  chaste  and  charming  wings  of 
Leonora  Gurney.  Herold,  no  more  aware  of  an  aura 
of  mystery  than  of  a  halo,  received  the  lady's  ad- 
vances in  his  frank,  laughing  way.  She  had  the 
raven  hair,  dark,  blue  eyes,  and  white  skin  of  an  Irish 
ancestry.  She  was  exceedingly  attractive.  She 
played  her  love-scenes  with  him — his  part  in  the  piece 
was  that  of  a  broken-down  solicitor's  clerk  who  en- 
tertained an  angel  unawares — with  an  artistic  sym- 


200  STELLA   MARIS 

pathy  that  is  the  rare  joy  of  the  actor,  when  he  feels, 
like  one  who  has  the  perfect  partner  in  a  waltz,  that 
he  merges  his  own  individuality  into  a  divine  union. 
At  the  end  of  the  third  act  the  curtain  came  down  on 
the  angel  bending  over  his  chair,  her  hand  in  his.  It 
remained  there,  a  warm  and  human  thing,  and  her 
breath  was  on  his  cheek,  for  a  long  time,  while  the 
curtain  went  up  and  down.  It  was  by  no  means  dis- 
agreeable to  hold  Leonora's  hand  and  feel  her  breath 
on  his  cheek,  after  the  common  emotion  of  the  swing- 
ing scene.  Hundreds  of  men  would  have  given  their 
ears  to  have  done  the  same  without  any  swinging 
scene  at  all. 

Herold  certainly  took  the  lady  by  the  tips  of  her 
fingers  and  adventured  with  her  into  the  Land  of 
Tenderness — the  Pays  du  Tendre  of  the  old  French 
romanticists.  How  could  mortal  man  help  it?  The 
theatre  and  the  theatrical  world  clacked  with  gossip. 
The  unapproachable  Leonora,  the  elusive  Herold:  it 
was  brilliant  high-comedy  marriage.  Already  those 
not  bound  by  romance  criticized  the  possibilities  of  a 
joint  management.  Could  he  always  play  lead  to  her  ? 
Was  not  his  scope,  exquisite  in  it  though  he  was,  too 
limited?  She  was  the  Juliet  of  her  generation. 
Would  he  be  content  to  play  the  Apothecary  ?  Sooner 
or  later  there  would  be  the  devil  to  pay.  To  the  on- 
lookers who  see  most  of  the  game  and  to  the  over- 
hearers  who  hear  ever  so  much  more,  the  affair  be- 
tween the  two  was  a  concluded  matter ;  but  the  parties 
to  the  supposed  contract  still  wandered  in  the  sweet 
pastures  of  the  indefinite.  And  this  was  through  no 
fault  of  the  lady.  She  did  her  best,  as  far  as  lay  in 
the  power  of  modest  woman,  to  lead  him  to  the  pre- 
cise highroad;  but  Herold  remained  as  elusive  as  a 
will-o'-the-wisp. 

"You  're  not  very  responsive  to-night,  Walter,"  she 


STELLA   MARIS  201 

said  during  a  wait  in  the  first  act,  which  they  gener- 
ally spent  on  the  stairs  leading  from  stage  to  dressing- 
rooms. 

In  the  intimate  world  of  the  theatre  the  use  of  the 
Christian  name  is  a  commonplace  signifying  nothing; 
but  a  trick  of  voice  may  make  it  signify  a  great  deal. 
Herold,  sensitive,  caught  her  tone  and  bit  his  lip. 

"The  actor's  Monday  slackness,"  said  he. 

"Where  have  you  been  week-ending?" 

"Nowhere  in  particular." 

"And  you  refused  Lady  Luxmore's  invitation, 
knowing  that  I  was  to  be  there,  in  order  to  go  no- 
where in  particular?" 

"The  floor  of  that  house  is  littered  with  duchesses," 
said  he,  "Its  untidiness  gets  on  my  nerves." 

"That  's  too  flippant,  Walter.  Why  not  say  at  once 
that  you  went  to  Southcliff?" 

"That  's  nowhere  in  particular,"  said  he.  "It  's  my 
second  home." 

"And  you  come  back  from  it  as  merry  as  a  young 
gentleman  in  a  Hauptmann  play.  You  are  barely 
civil." 

"My  dear  Leonora !"  he  protested. 

She  looked  him  straight  in  the  eye  and  shook  her 
head. 

"Barely  civil.    What  have  I  done  to  you?" 

"You  have  always  shown  yourself  to  be  the  sweet- 
est of  women,"  said  he. 

"Then  why  not  treat  me  as  such?" 

She  stood  near  him  on  the  narrow  stair,  alluring, 
reproachful,  menacing,  yet  ready  to  be  submissive. 
Despite  her  make-up,  her  proud  beauty  shone  replen- 
dent.  If  she  had  been  a  wise  woman,  she  would  have 
let  him  answer  the  challenge.  But  a  woman  in  love  is 
an  idiot ;  Heaven  forbid  that  she  should  be  otherwise ! 
So  is  a  man,  for  the  matter  of  that ;  but  he  obeys  an 


202  STELLA    MARTS 

elementary  instinct  of  self -protection.  Woman  essen- 
tially disobedient  (cf.  Rex  Mundi  vs.  Eve)  does  not. 
Hence  storms  and  tempests  and  cataclysms.  Seeing 
him  hesitate,  she  added  jealously: 

"I  believe  there  is  more  attraction  in  the  shadow- 
child  at  Southcliff  than  I  have  been  led  to  suppose." 

A  man  of  the  world,  he  ignored  the  challenge,  and 
turned  off  the  innuendo  with  a  laugh. 

"Who  can  say  what  is  shadow  and  what  is  sub- 
stance here  below?  Kant  will  tell  you  that  nothing 
exists  save  as  an  idea  in  our  minds." 

"I  don't  seem  to  exist  in  yours  at  all." 

"There  you  wrong  me,"  he  cried. 

They  fenced  as  they  had  fenced  before ;  but  on  her 
mention  of  Stellamaris,  Herold  had  closed  against  her 
the  outer  court  of  his  heart  into  which  she  had 
stepped,  and,  looking  at  her,  had  become  frozenly 
aware  that  the  dark  Irish  eyes,  and  the  raven  hair  on 
a  stately  head,  and  the  curved,  promising  lips,  and  the 
queenly  figure,  and  the  genius  and  rich  womanhood  of 
which  these  were  the  investiture  of  flesh,  meant  to 
him  nothing  and  less  than  nothing.  The  woman  read 
her  sentence  in  his  eyes,  and  abruptly  left  him,  and 
stood  in  the  wings  until  her  entrance.  And  Herold, 
manlike,  gave  her  no  thought;  for  his  head  was  in  a 
whirl,  and  his  heart  afire,  with  a  new  and  consuming 
knowledge.  The  splendour  of  all  the  Leonora  Gurneys, 
of  all  the  splendid  women  of  the  earth,  faded  into  a 
pale  glimmer  before  the  starry  eyes  of  one  girl. 

As  a  wonder-child,  as  a  thing  of  sea-foam  and  sun- 
set cloud,  she  had  crept  into  his  soul  and  had  taken 
up  therein  her  everlasting  habitation.  She  was  the 
very  music  of  his  being,  an  indissoluble  essence  of 
himself.  He  wondered,  as  men  untouched  by  love  do 
wonder,  why  no  woman  had  done  more  than  stir  the 
surface  of  emotion.  Now  he  knew.  He  had  loved 


STELLA    MARIS  203 

her  in  her  exquisite  ideality  with  a  love  that  was  more 
than  love.  Now,  in  her  magical  transformation,  he 
loved  her  with  love  itself. 

Stella  Maris,  star  of  the  sea!  Stella  Herold,  star 
of  that  which  is  greater  than  all  the  multitudinous 
seas  of  earth,  the  soul  of  a  man! 

He  dreamed  his  dreams,  and  gave  that  evening  an 
exceedingly  bad  performance. 

SOON  afterwards,  with  drums  playing  and  colours  fly- 
ing, Stella  came  with  her  retinue  to  London.  She  had 
rooms  in  a  magnificent  hostelry,  a  magnificent  hired 
motor-car  to  transport  her,  and  as  magnificent  rai- 
ment, chosen  by  her  own  delicate  self,  as  any  young 
woman  could  desire.  But  despite  all  this  magnifi- 
cence, she  wept  over  many  a  lost  illusion.  Where 
were  the  music-haunted  streets,  the  golden  pavements, 
the  gorgeous  castles,  the  joyous  throngs  of  which 
John,  years  ago,  had  fed  the  swift  imagination  of  the 
child? 

On  their  way  from  Victoria  Station  they  passed 
through  St.  James's  Park. 

"That  's  Buckingham  Palace,"  said  Sir  Oliver,  with 
more  pride  than  if  he  owned  it. 

"That?" 

Her  heart  sank  like  a  stone  dropped  down  a  well. 
That  dingy,  black  barrack  the  stately  home  of  the 
king?  And  when  they  swung  up  Constitution  Hill 
and  lined  up  in  the  traffic  by  Hyde  Park  Corner, 
"This,"  said  Sir  Oliver,  "is  Piccadilly." 

What  she  had  expected,  poor  child,  to  find  in  Pic- 
cadilly, she  scarcely  knew;  but  from  infancy,  the 
name  had  a  sweet  and  mystic  significance.  It  con- 
noted beauty  and  grandeur;  it  was  associated  in  her 
mind  with  silk  and  gold  and  marble.  It  was  what  a 
street  in  the  New  Jerusalem  might  have  been  had 


204  STELLA    MARIS 

John  of  Patmos  had  the  training  of  a  star  reporter. 
Poor  Piccadilly !  To  the  Englishman  the  most  beaute- 
ous, the  most  seductive,  the  fullest  of  meaning  of  all 
the  thoroughfares  of  the  cities  of  the  world,  to  the 
disillusioned  girl  it  was  only  a  dismal,  clattering, 
shrieking  ravine.  Why  had  they  lied  to  her?  She 
could  not  understand. 

The  first  evening  she  was  overstrained,  and  went  to 
bed  early ;  but  the  next  night  they  took  her  to  see  the 
play  in  which  Herold  was  acting. 

"I  '11  bring  her  round  between  the  acts,"  said  John 
to  Herold,  during  a  discussion  of  the  adventure. 

"You  '11  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Herold. 

"It  will  interest  her  tremendously  to  go  behind." 

"And  see  all  the  tinsel  and  make-believe?  What  a 
fool  you  are,  John!" 

"Well,  anyhow,  we  '11  come  and  see  you  in  your 
dressing-room,"  said  John,  who  recognized  some  rea- 
son in  his  friend's  objection.  "We  can  get  round 
without  crossing  the  stage." 

Herold  put  his  hands  on  John's  great  shoulders. 

"My  dear  John,"  said  he,  "I  love  my  profession 
very  dearly,  but  there  's  one  thing  in  it  which  I  loathe, 
and  that  is  having  to  paint  my  face." 

He  said  no  more ;  but  John  understood,  though  he 
thought  it  somewhat  finicking  of  Herold  to  shrink 
from  meeting  Stella  in  his  make-up.  He  had  seen  him 
talk  thus  to  dames  and  damsels  of  the  most  exalted 
station  without  a  shadow  of  false  shame. 

So  Stella  went  to  the  play  without  peeping  behind 
the  scenes;  and  then,  indeed,  she  once  more  lived  in 
her  Land  of  Illusion.  The  hushed  house,  spectral  in 
the  dim  light,  seemed  part  of  a  dream-world.  On  the 
stage,  life  real  and  vibrating  passed  before  her  en- 
raptured eyes.  During  the  first  part  of  the  play  she 
squeezed  John's  hand  tight,  and  during  the  intervals 


STELLA   MARIS  205 

said  very  little.  She  did  not  question  the  means  by 
which  Herold  transformed  himself  into  the  broken- 
down  solicitor's  clerk.  He  was  the  solicitor's  clerk, 
and  no  longer  Herold.  His  love  for  the  beautiful 
woman,  at  first  so  hopeless,  wrung  her  heart.  Then 
the  response  of  the  woman  set  her  pulses  throbbing. 
The  third  act,  an  admirable  piece  of  crescendo, 
reached  a  height  of  passion  which  held  her  tense. 
Love  the  Conqueror,  the  almighty,  spread  his  com- 
pelling pinions  over  the  breathless  house.  It  was  a 
revelation.  She  had  never  suspected  the  existence  of 
such  a  tumultuous  phenomenon.  Love  she  had  heard 
of,  the  love  of  Prince  Charming  for  Princess  Rose; 
but  it  had  meant  no  more  to  her  than  the  loves  of  but- 
terflies. This  was  different.  It  explained  things 
she  had  not  understood  in  music.  It  opened  up  the 
world  that  had  lain  hidden  beyond  the  crimson  of  her 
sunsets. 

When  the  curtain  came  down  on  the  end  of  the 
great  love-scene  she  was  too  much  overwrought  to 
applaud.  She  sat  pale,  shaken,  limp,  with  only  one 
great  desire — that  all  surroundings  would  vanish  and 
that  she  could  find  herself  by  her  window  looking  out 
over  the  moonlit  sea.  There,  she  felt,  she  could  weep 
her  heart  out;  here  her  eyes  were  intolerably  dry. 

Sir  Oliver  rose  and  stretched  himself  at  the  back  of 
the  box. 

"Devilish  good !  Splendid !  Never  thought  Walter 
could  touch  it.  Miss  Gurney,  too,  immense.  Puts 
one  in  mind  of  Adelaide  Neilson.  Best  Juliet  there 
has  ever  been.  Before  your  time,  John.  Jolly  good 
job,  however,  people  don't  go  on  like  that  in  real 
life." 

Stella  turned  her  head  quickly. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Uncle?" 

"People  go  a  bit  quieter,  my  dear,"  he  laughed. 


206  STELLA    MARIS 

"Gad !  If  that  sort  of  thing  became  popular,  it  would 
tear  us  all  to  bits." 

He  went  out  to  smoke,  dragging  John  with  him. 
Stella  put  a  wistful  little  gloved  hand  on  Lady 
Blount's  knee. 

"Is  that  true,  Auntie  ?" 

Lady  Blount  sighed.  Such  storms  of  emotion  had 
not  come  her  way.  She  looked  backward  over  the 
dreary  vista  of  sixty  barren  years.  One  such  hour  of 
madness,  and  what  a  difference  in  her  memories ! 

"I  can't  tell  you,  darling.  Perhaps  not,  if  two 
people  love  each  other  very,  very  dearly;  but  they 
must  do  that — and  love  is  n't  given  to  every  one." 

An  ingenuous  question  rose  to  the  girl's  lips,  but 
it  died  there,  poisoned  by  the  remembrance  of  vile 
words  of  hatred.  Instead,  she  asked : 

"How  many  people,  then,  love  like  those  two  in  the 
play?" 

"About  one  in  a  million,"  replied  Lady  Blount. 

And  Stella,  with  the  young  girl's  sweet  and  natural 
wonder  whether  she  might  possibly  be  one  of  the  mil- 
lion, felt  the  hot  blood  rise  to  neck  and  cheek. 
Ashamed,  she  held  her  fan  before  her  face  and,  lean- 
ing over  the  front  of  the  box,  watched  the  shimmer- 
ing stalls. 

The  play  over,  they  drove  home  in  the  magnificent 
motor-car.  Supper  awaited  them  in  their  sitting- 
room,  where  Herold  was  to  join  them  later.  Stella 
lay  back  on  the  luxurious  seat,  nestling  by  Lady 
Blount,  languid,  with  closed  eyes.  The  others,  think- 
ing that  she  was  physically  fatigued,  said  little.  They 
did  not  realize  the  soul-shaking  effect  of  the  revelation 
of  human  passion  on  their  pure  star  of  the  sea.  It  was 
not  given  them  to  divine  the  tempest — such  a  one,  per- 
haps, as  that  which  rocks  the  bee  on  its  flower,  though 
a  storm  all  the  same — that  raged  beneath  the  mask  of 


STELLA    MARIS  207 

the  delicate  face.  They  thought  she  was  fatigued,  and 
because  they  loved  her  they  did  not  weary  her  with 
speech. 

She  was  indeed  tired,  desperately  tired,  by  the  time 
they  arrived  at  the  hotel.  She  could  scarcely  walk  up 
the  steps.  John  supported  her  to  the  lift.  When  they 
reached  their  landing,  he  took  her  bodily  in  his  arms 
and  carried  her  down  the  corridor,  Sir  Oliver  and 
Lady  Blount  hurrying  on  in  front,  so  as  to  open  the 
sitting-room  door  and  turn  on  the  lights.  Stella's 
head  lay  on  John's  shoulder,  an  arm,  for  security's 
sake,  instinctively  round  his  neck.  The  way  was  long, 
the  lift  serving  the  wing  wherein  their  apartments 
were  situated  being  out  of  working  order,  and  John 
lingered  on  the  delicious  journey. 

"Poor  darling!  We  've  exhausted  you,"  he  whis- 
pered. 

She  shook  her  head  and  smiled  wanly.  "It  was 
wonderful."  And  after  a  second  she  said:  "And 
this  is  wonderful,  too.  How  strong  you  are,  Beloved- 
est." 

"Do  you  like  me  to  carry  you?" 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  they  looked  dreamily  into 
his.  He  laughed,  and  bent  his  head,  and  kissed  her. 
He  had  kissed  her  thousands  of  times  before,  but  this 
time  her  soft  lips  met  his  for  an  instant,  and  when 
they  parted,  her  eyes  closed  again,  and  she  lay  back 
very  white  in  his  arms.  And  John,  too,  was  shaken, 
and  held  the  delicate  body  very  tight  against  him  and 
quickened  his  pace. 

He  laid  her  gently  on  a  couch  in  the  sitting-room. 
Lady  Blount  was  all  for  her  going  then  and  there  to 
bed;  but  she  pleaded  for  a  sight  of  Herold.  He 
came  in  a  few  moments  afterwards.  She  roused  her- 
self, thanked  him  in  her  gracious  way  for  the  evening 
of  delight. 


208  STELLA    MARIS 

"To-morrow,  dear,  I  '11  tell  you  all  about  it.  I  am 
just  a  little  bit  dazed  now." 

"Has  it  been  a  great  adventure?"  he  asked,  with  a 
laugh. 

Involuntarily  she  glanced  at  John  and  saw  his  eyes 
fixed  on  her.  She  flushed  slightly. 

"Perhaps  the  greatest  of  all,"  she  said. 

The  men  walked  together  the  common  part  of  their 
homeward  journey.  John  slipped  his  arm  through  his 
friend's,  a  rare  demonstration  of  affection. 

"Wallie,  old  man,"  said  he,  "I  'm  in  hell  again. 
I  've  got  to  get  out.  I  must  n't  see  any  more  of 
Stella." 

"Why  not?" 

"Just  that.  I  must  get  out  of  her  life  somehow. 
Things  have  changed.  It  's  too  horrible  to  think  of." 

Herold  shook  himself  free  and  halted. 

"My  God!"  he  cried,  "you?" 

John  threw  up  his  arms  in  a  gesture  of  despair. 

"Can  I  help  it  ?  It  is  n't  given  to  man  to  help  these 
things." 

"And  Stella?" 

"I  must  get  out  of  her  life,"  said  John. 

"It  will  be  difficult." 

"What  can  you  suggest?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Herold— "nothing  now." 

They  moved  on,  and  walked  in  dead  silence  to  the 
parting  of  their  ways. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

THE  making  and  the  executing  of  a  good  resolu- 
tion are  two  entirely  different  actions.  The 
former  is  a  process  as  instantaneous  as  you 
please — one  born  of  passion,  heaven-sent  inspiration, 
alcohol,  or  New  Year  hysteria ;  the  latter  one  of  prac- 
tical handling  conditioned  by  the  entanglement  of  a 
thousand  circumstances.  If  a  man  carried  out  with 
lightning  rapidity  every  good  resolution  he  formed, 
he  would  inevitably  make  marmalade  of  his  affairs, 
and  clog  therein  the  feet  and  bodies  of  many  inno- 
cent people  as  though  they  were  wasps.  With  evil 
resolutions  it  is  another  matter.  You  want  to  play 
the  devil,  and  the  sooner  and  more  completely  you  do 
it,  the  nearer  do  you  approximate  to  your  ideal.  But 
it  is  very  dangerous  to  do  good,  and  involves  a  vast 
amount  of  weary  thought  and  trouble. 

It  was  all  very  well  for  John  Risca  to  resolve  to 
go  out  of  the  life  of  Stellamaris,  but  how  could  he  do 
so  without  committing  the  manifest  absurdity  of  tak- 
ing a  ticket  for  equatorial  Africa?  He  was  beset  by 
forbidding  circumstances.  There  was  his  work;  there 
was  Unity;  there  was  his  aunt;  there  was  Stellamaris 
herself ;  and,  chief  of  all,  there  was  the  baleful  figure 
of  the  woman  who  went  about  with  murderous  hat- 
pins. Thus  in  an  ironical  way  did  history  repeat  her- 
self. Six  years  before  he  was  all  for  flying  to  the 
antipodes  on  account  of  his  wife,  and  was  restrained 
by  consideration  of  Stellamaris;  and  now,  when  it 
would  be  the  heroical  proceeding  to  fly  to  the  ends  of 

209 


'210  STELLA    MARIS 

the  earth  from  Stellamaris,  he  was  restrained  by  con- 
siderations in  which  his  wife  was  a  most  important 
factor. 

He  lay  stark  awake  all  night,  wondering  how  he 
could  carry  out  his  resolve.  At  dawn  he  came  to  the 
only  sane  conclusion.  He  could  not  carry  it  out  at 
all,  at  least  in  no  desperate  or  brutal  fashion.  When 
he  got  up  and  faced  the  daylight  world,  he  scorned 
himself  for  a  fool.  The  soft  clinging  of  her  lips  had 
transmuted  the  worship  of  years  into  the  fine  gold  of 
love.  That  \vas  true,  maddeningly  true.  His  being 
was  aflame  with  the  new  and  wondrous  thing.  But 
Stellamaris?  To  her  the  kiss  that  she  gave  had  been 
one  of  gratitude,  affection,  trust,  weariness.  She  had 
lain  in  his  arms  and  had  felt  safe  and  sheltered,  and 
so  had  kissed  him,  the  Great  High  Belovedest  of  her 
childhood.  To  her  the  kiss  had  meant  nothing.  How 
could  it?  How  could  passion  touch  the  creature  of 
sea- foam  and  cloud  ?  And  even  allowing  such  an  ex- 
travagant possibility,  how  could  he,  great,  rough, 
elderly,  ugly  bear  that  he  was,  inspire  such  a  feeling 
in  a  young  girl's  heart  ?  He  a  romantic  figure !  He, 
with  the  pachydermatous  mug  that  offended  his  eyes 
as  he  shaved !  He  denounced  the  monstrous  insolence 
of  his  overnight  fancy.  He  would  keep  tight  grip  on 
himself.  She  should  never  know.  As  far  as  the  in- 
finitely precious  one  was  concerned,  all  would  be  well. 
So  argued  the  human  ostrich. 

After  his  morning's  work  at  the  office  of  the  weekly 
review,  he  went  to  the  Carlton,  where  the  party  of  in- 
timates had  arranged  to  lunch.  He  arrived  early,  but 
found  Herold,  who  was  earlier,  waiting  in  the  palm 
court. 

"Look  here,  old  man,"  said  he  as  he  sat  down  by 
his  side,  "forget  the  fool  nonsense  I  talked  last  night." 

"Did  n't  you  mean  it?"  asked  Herold. 


STELLA    MARIS  211 

"Yes,"  said  John,  bluntly.  "I  did  n't  sleep  a  wink. 
But  forget  it  all  the  same.  Things  have  got  to  go 
on  outwardly  just  as  they  are." 

"As  you  like,"  said  Herold.  He  lit  a  cigarette,  and 
after  a  whiff  or  two,  added:  "I  must  repeat  what  I 
hinted  at  and  what  you  seemed  to  reply  to.  What 
about  Stella?" 

"It  's  absurd  to  think  of  her  suspecting,"  said  John. 

Herold's  nervous  fingers  snapped  the  cigarette  in 
two. 

"She  must  never  suspect,"  said  he. 

"Do  you  think  I  'm  a  devil?"  said  John. 

"No.  You  're  a  good  fellow.  Who  knows  it  bet- 
ter than  I?  But  you  're  passionate  and  impulsive. 
You  must  be  on  your  guard — not  for  the  next  two  or 
three  days,  but  for  ever  and  ever." 

"All  right,"  said  John.  "Now  put  the  matter  out 
of  your  mind." 

Herold  nodded,  squeezed  the  burning  end  of  his 
broken  cigarette  into  an  ash-tray,  and  lit  another. 

"You  're  looking  fagged  out,  Wallie,"  said  John, 
after  a  while.  "What  have  you  been  doing?" 

"Nothing  in  particular.  This  part  is  rather  trying, 
and  I  've  not  had  a  holiday  for  a  couple  of  years.  I 
want  one  rather  badly.  I  don't  complain,"  he  added, 
with  a  smile,  glad  to  get  away  from  the  torturing  talk 
of  Stellamaris.  "During  the  two  years  I  've  been 
working,  scores  of  better  actors  than  I  have  n't  been 
able  to  get  an  engagement.  I  'm  a  spoilt  child  of  for- 
tune. My  time  will  come,  I  suppose,  when  they  no 
longer  want  me." 

The  talk  drifted  to  the  precariousness  of  the  actor's 
calling.  Even  men  in  demand  from  every  manage- 
ment found  a  difficulty  in  making  a  living.  Herold 
instanced  Brownlow,  one  of  the  few  jeunes  premiers 
of  the  stage,  who  had  slaved  every  day  for  a  year, 


212  STELLA    MARIS 

and  having  been  in  four  or  five  successive  failures, 
found  himself,  at  the  end  of  it,  the  recipient  of  three 
months'  salary.  Six  weeks'  slavery  at  rehearsal  for 
nothing,  and  a  two  weeks'  run !  The  system  ought  to 
be  changed.  John  agreed,  as  he  had  agreed  to  the 
same  argument  a  thousand  times  before. 

"But  I  don't  like  to  see  you  so  pulled  down,"  said 
he,  affectionately. 

Herold  smiled  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He, 
too,  had  not  slept ;  but  he  did  not  inform  John  of  the 
fact.  It  was  a  significant  aspect  of  their  friendship, 
if  not  of  their  respective  temperaments,  that  John  re- 
ceived few  of  Herold's  confidences.  The  essential 
sympathizers  among  men  are  mute  as  to  their  own 
cares.  Divine  selfishness  or  a  pride  equally  noble 
seals  their  lips.  John  Risca,  with  a  cut  finger,  would 
have  held  it  up  for  the  commiseration  of  Herold, 
cursing  heft  and  blade,  and  everything  cursable  con- 
nected with  the  knife;  but  Herold,  with  a  broken 
heart,  would  have  held  his  smiling  peace. 

For  a  moment  he  was  convinced  of  John's  faith  in 
Stella's  ignorance ;  but  only  for  a  moment.  When  she 
entered  the  palm  court  with  Sir  Oliver  and  Lady 
Blount,  and  he  saw  her  eyes,  dewy  with  a  new  happi- 
ness, rest  on  John,  he  felt  that,  awakened  or  unawak- 
ened,  Stellamaris  loved  not  him,  Herold,  but  his 
friend.  And  when  she  came  up  to  him  in  her  frank, 
gracious  way,  and  let  her  gloved  little  hand  linger  in 
his,  he  laughed  and  praised  her  radiance  with  a  jest, 
and  not  one  of  the  four  dreamed  of  the  pain  in  the 
man's  heart. 

They  took  their  seats  in  the  gay  and  crowded 
restaurant. 

"This  is  really  a  palace !"  cried  Stella,  in  great  de- 
light. "Why  can't  every  place  be  as  beautiful  as 
this?" 


STELLA   MARIS  213 

She  had  recovered  from  the  emotional  fatigue  of 
the  night  before,  having  slept  the  sound  sleep  of  happy 
girlhood,  and  awakened  to  the  shy  consciousness  of 
impending  change.  The  pink  of  health  was  in  her 
cheeks. 

Sir  Oliver  replied  to  her  question. 

"It  takes  a  deuce  of  a  lot  of  money  to  run  such  a 
concern." 

"But  why  has  n't  every  one  got  money?" 

"That 's  what  these  confounded  socialist  fellows  are 
asking,"  replied  Sir  Oliver,  helping  himself  largely  to 
anchovies  and  mayonnaise  of  egg. 

But  Stella  scarcely  heard.  She  remembered  the 
tramp  who  had  not  a  penny  and  the  misery  that  had 
met  her  eyes  during  her  rides  abroad,  and  a  momen- 
tary shadow  fell  on  her. 

"I  think  there  's  a  great  deal  to  be  said  for  the  so- 
cialists," remarked  Lady  Julia. 

Sir  Oliver  laid  down  his  fork  and  stared  less  at  his 
wife  than  at  the  blasphemy. 

"There  's  nothing  to  be  said  for  'em;  nothing  at 
all." 

"You  '11  admit  the  uneven  distribution  of  wealth," 
said  Lady  Blount,  drawing  herself  up.  She  was 
rather  proud  of  the  phrase. 

"Lazy  dogs — all  to  get  and  nothing  to  do.  You 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  Julia." 

"Oh,  darlings,  don't  get  cross  with  me!"  cried 
Stella,  in  distress.  The  observance  of  the  Unwritten 
Law  had  imperceptibly  grown  less  strict  as  the  in- 
fluence of  the  sea-chamber  had  waned,  and  the  poor 
quarrelsome  pair  were  not  at  their  old  pains  to  hide 
their  differences.  "I  never  meant  to  talk  socialism." 

"My  precious  dove !"  cried  Sir  Oliver,  "who  in  the 
world  said  you  did?  It  was  your  aunt." 

"I  believe  it  's  John  who  is  at  the  bottom  of  it,  be- 


214  STELLA    MARIS 

cause  he  's  wearing  a  red  tie,"  Herold  interposed,  with 
a  laugh.  "Oh,  John,  where  did  you  find  it  ?" 

"I  think  it  suits  him  beautifully,"  declared  Stella, 
quick  to  follow  the  red  herring  of  a  cravat.  "It  's 
when  he  wears  mauve  or  light  blue  or  green  striped 
with  yellow  that  he  goes  wrong.  Belovedest, — "  she 
turned  to  him  tenderly;  she  was  placed  between  him 
and  Sir  Oliver, — "now  that  I  am  like  everybody  else," 
— her  favorite  euphemism, — "do  let  me  choose  your 
ties  for  you." 

"Of  course,  dear;  of  course,"  said  John,  who  had 
been  eating  hors  d'ceuvre  in  glum  silence.  "Who  is 
there  with  taste  like  you?" 

It  would  be  entrancingly  delectable  to  wear  ties 
chosen  by  Stellamaris.  Why,  it  would  be  coiling  her 
sweet  thoughts  about  his  neck!  This  concession  at 
least  was  harmless.  Then  suddenly  he  remembered 
that  for  the  last  two  or  three  years  Unity  had  taken 
charge  of  such  details  of  his  wardrobe,  and  he  had 
sufficient  glimmering  of  insight  into  feminine  nature 
to  know  that  between  Unity  with  her  domestic  rights 
and  a  tigress  with  cubs  there  was  remarkably  little 
difference.  How  was  he  to  abrogate  one  of  her  priv- 
ileges ?  The  gadfly  question  worried  him.  With  such 
trumpery  concerns  are  the  deepest  emotions  of  human 
life  complicated.  He  who  does  not  recognize  them 
has  no  sense  of  values. 

The  conjugal  wrangle  having  been  checked,  the 
meal  proceeded  gaily  enough.  Stella  spoke  of  the  play 
and  praised  Herold's  acting,  but  with  curious  shyness 
avoided  discussion  of  the  theme.  Herold  noticed  her 
adroit  detours.  He  also  noticed,  with  a  sensitive 
man's  pain,  many  other  little  things  indicative  of  the 
awakening  of  Stellamaris.  Once  he  saw  her  lay  her 
hand  impulsively  on  John's,  as  she  had  been  wont  to 
do  since  her  childhood,  and  draw  it  quickly  away, 


STELLA   MARIS  215 

while  a  flush,  like  a  rose-edged  fairy  cloud,  came  and 
went  in  her  cheek.  He  also  caught  her  glancing 
covertly  at  John,  her  brow  knitted  in  a  tiny  frown, 
as  though  she  wondered  at  his  unusual  silence. 

When  the  party  broke  up,  John  leaving  early,  owing 
to  pressure  of  work  at  the  office,  she  said : 

"I  shall  see  you  to-night,  of  course?" 

"I  'm  afraid  not.  I  have  to  see  the  review  through 
the  press." 

Her  face  fell  piteously. 

"Oh,  Belovedest!"  she  cried.  "And  I  can't  have 
Walter,  because  he's  tied  to  his  theatre." 

But  the  disappointment  was  on  account  of  John,  not 
on  account  of  Herold. 

"You  '11  have  Walter  most  of  the  afternoon,"  re- 
marked Lady  Blount. 

Stella  laughed.  "But  I  want  everybody  always," 
she  said  disingenuously. 

It  had  been  arranged  that  while  Sir  Oliver  should 
go  to  his  longed-for  and  seldom-used  club,  and  Lady 
Blount  visit  certain  cronies,  Herold  should  take  Stella 
to  the  Zoological  Gardens. 

She  turned  to  John. 

"Are  you  quite  sure  you  can't  come  too,  dear?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "A  newspaper  office  is  a  re- 
morseless machine— just  like  a  theatre.  I  must 
work." 

"I  'm  beginning  to  be  frightfully  jealous  of  work," 
she  said,  with  a  laugh. 

"It  's  the  noblest  thing  a  man  can  do,"  said  Sir 
Oliver. 

At  the  zoo,  Stella  found  a  world  of  wonder,  which 
drove  disappointment  from  her  mind,  and  in  her  child- 
like gaiety  and  enthusiasm  Herold  forgot  his  heart- 
ache for  a  while.  Sufficient  for  the  moment  was  the 
joy  of  her  exquisite  presence,  of  her  animated  cheeks 


216  STELLA   MARIS 

and  dancing  eyes,  of  her  beautiful  voice  rippling  into 
exclamations  of  rapture  at  monkey  or  secretary-bird 
or  hippopotamus. 

"These  are  springbok,"  said  Herold,  in  front  of  an 
inclosure. 

Stella's  brows  knitted  themselves  into  their  custom- 
ary network  of  perplexity. 

"But  I  Ve  read  that  men  go  out  to  shoot  spring- 
boks." 

"I  'm  afraid  they  do,"  said  Herold. 

"Men  deliberately  kill  these  beautiful,  harmless 
things,  with  their  melting  eyes?"  Her  own  filled  with 
moisture.  "Oh,  Walter!  How  can  men  be  so  vile?" 
She  knelt  on  the  ground,  and  spoke  to  one,  which 
poked  its  sensitive  nose  through  the  railing.  "Oh,  you 
dear!  Oh,  you  perfectly  lovely  dear!" 

Then  she  rose  and  took  Herold  by  the  arm,  and  a 
little  shiver  ran  through  her  shoulders.  "I  suppose 
men  kill  everything.  I  've  found  out  they  even  kill 
one  another.  Would  you  or  John  kill  creatures  that 
did  you  no  harm?" 

She  looked  at  him  straight,  with  the  searching  can- 
dour of  a  spotless  soul. 

"I  've  shot  birds  which  were  afterwards  eaten,"  he 
replied  uncomfortably.  "You  see,  dear,  you  eat  part- 
ridges and  pheasants,  don't  you?  Well,  they  have  to 
be  killed,  just  like  sheep  or  oxen.  Often  in  South 
Africa  men's  lives  depend  on  the  supply  of  springbok 
meat  they  can  obtain." 

"And  does  John  shoot  little  birds  ?" 

"John  has  n't  had  the  opportunity  of  going  about 
to  shooting  parties.  All  his  life  he  has  had  to  work 
too  hard." 

"I  'm  glad,"  said  Stella,  curtly,  and  for  a  while  she 
walked  on  in  silence,  and  poor  Herold  felt  like  an  un- 
hanged wallower  in  innocent  gore. 


STELLA    MARIS  217 

At  last  she  said,  "Are  n't  there  any  lions  and 
tigers  ?" 

"Of  course." 

"Why  have  n't  we  seen  them?" 

"They  roar  dreadfully,  and  they're  rather  fierce 
and  terrible,  Stellamaris." 

"Are  you  afraid  of  them?" 

He  noted  the  feminine,  quasi-logical  touch  of  scorn, 
and  laughed  with  a  wry  face. 

"They  're  behind  bars,  dear.  But  I  thought  they 
might  possibly  frighten  you." 

"Frighten  me?    Let  us  go  and  see  them." 

So,  seeing  that  Stellamaris  was  a  young  woman  of 
intrepid  and  imperious  disposition,  Herold  dutifully 
took  her  to  the  Great  Cat's  House,  where  again  the 
child  in  her  was  enraptured  by  the  splendour  of  the 
striped  and  tawny  brutes.  She  lingered  in  front  of 
the  lion's  cage.  The  four-o'clock  meal  was  over. 
The  lioness  lay  asleep  in  the  corner,  but  her  mate  sat 
up,  with  his  head  near  to  the  bars,  an  enormous, 
cleaned  bone  between  his  paws.  The  absurd  and  use- 
less animal  had  struck  a  photographic  pose  at  which 
Herold,  with  a  more  sophisticated  companion,  would 
have  laughed.  But  Stellamaris  took  the  lion  too  seri- 
ously. He  fulfilled  all  her  dreams  of  a  lion.  She 
looked  in  breathless  admiration  at  the  lion,  and  the 
lion,  choke-full  of  food,  regarded  her  with  grave  ben- 
evolence. Again  she  pressed  Herold's  arm. 

"How  noble!    How  kingly!" 

He  assented.  The  lion  was  certainly  doing  his  best 
to  warrant  the  impression. 

"He  is  just  like  John,"  said  Stellamaris. 

"Something,"  said  Herold,  leading  her  out  into  the 
fresh  air  and  sunshine. 

"That  fearless,  royal  look,"  said  Stella — "don't 
you  think  so  ?" 


2i 8  STELLA   MARTS 

Before  replying,  he  took  her  to  a  shady  bench, 
where  they  both  sat  down. 

"John  's  the  finest  and  the  best  and  the  bravest  fel- 
low in  the  world,"  said  he,  loyally. 

Her  eyes  shone.  She  put  out  her  gloved  little  hand 
in  her  familiar,  caressing  way  and  pressed  his  gently. 
Her  maidenhood  did  not  glow  at  the  sisterly  touch. 

"I  'm  so  happy,  my  Great  High  Favourite,  dear," 
she  said. 

"Why?  Why  now  more  than  usual?"  He  smiled 
wistfully. 

The  sky  was  blue,  and  the  trees  were  heavy  with 
leafage,  and  she  had  just  seen  the  king  of  beasts  in 
his  most  kingly  aspect,  and  he  reminded  her  of  the 
man  she  loved,  and  her  heart  was  young  and  innocent. 
Herold  once  more  became  her  chosen  companion  in 
the  Land  That  Never  Was.  She  dropped  her  voice  to 
a  whisper,  for  staring  people  strolled  along  the  path 
ten  yards  away.  Besides,  there  are  times  when  the 
sound  of  one's  own  voice  is  embarrassing. 

"You  love  John,  don't  you,  dear?  You  love  him 
dearly,  dearly,  dearly,  as  he  deserves  to  be  loved?" 

"I  would  lay  down  my  life  for  him,"  said  Herold, 
gravely. 

She  gripped  his  hand.  "I  know.  He  would  do  the 
same  for  you.  Do  you  think,  Walter  dear — "  she 
paused  and  lowered  her  eyelids,  "do  you  think  there's 
a  more  splendid  man  than  John  in  the  world?" 

"I  am  his  friend,  Stellamaris,  and  I  'm  prejudiced, 
— Love  is  blind,  you  know, — but  I  don't  think  so." 

She  leaned  back  in  her  seat  and  meditated.  Then 
she  said : 

"I  wish  you  and  I  were  sitting  by  my   window.* 
You  and  I  understand  each  other,  but  I  miss  the  sea. 
You  and  I  and  the  sea  understand  one  another  bet- 
ter.    Can't  you  see  it  this  lovely  afternoon?     It  's 


STELLA    MARIS  219 

quite  calm,  but  there  's  a  little  kissing  breath  of  wind, 
which  makes  it  dance  and  sparkle  in  the  sun.  It  's 
laughing  with  gladness.  Trees  are  beautiful,  but  they 
don't  laugh." 

"They  whisper  eternal  things,"  said  Herold. 

"What?" 

"The  rhythm  of  life — fulfilment,  as  now,  winter's 
decay,  and  the  everlasting  rebirth  of  spring." 

"They  don't  tell  me  that.  I  don't  understand  their 
language,"  replied  Stella.  "To-day  I  want  the  sea, 
just  with  you — just  you  and  I  and  the  sea." 

"And  then  you  think  I  should  understand  all  that 
the  pink  sea-shell  that  is  you  is  trying  to  tell  me  ?" 

She  laughed.  "I  could  tell  the  sea,  and  the  sea 
could  tell  you." 

Secret  de  Polichinelle!  Had  she  not  been  telling 
him  all  the  time,  as  implicitly  as  maidenhood  could 
tell  man,  of  the  great  and  wonderful  adventure  of 
her  soul?  He  was  exquisitely  near, — that  he  knew, 
— nearer,  indeed,  to  the  roots  of  her  being  than  the 
leonine  hero  of  her  dreams.  He  alone  of  mortals  was 
privileged  to  receive  and  treasure  the  overflow  of  her 
heart.  With  him  as  joint  trustee  was  the  eternal 
ocean.  He  winced  at  the  irony  of  it  all. 

Presently  she  asked : 

"Have  you  ever  loved  any  one?" 

He  answered  as  he  had  done  years  before : 

"I  have  loved  dreams." 

She  retorted  in  his  own  words : 

"One  can't  marry  a  dream."  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"You  will  love  some  one  some  day,  and  then  you 
will  want  to  marry  her,"  she  continued,  with  her  di- 
rect simplicity.  "And  when  you  do,  you  '11  come  and 
tell  me,  dear,  for  I  shall  understand." 

"I  '11  tell  you,  Stellamaris,"  he  promised.    Then  he 


220  STELLA    MARIS 

sprang  to  his  feet.     The  pain  had  grown  intolerable. 
"We  have  n't  seen  the  giraffes,"  said  he. 

The  child  in  her  once  more  came  to  the  surface. 
"I  've  longed  to  see  a  giraffe  all  my  life,"  she  cried, 
and  she  accompanied  him  blissfully. 

After  leaving  her  at  the  hotel,  Herold  went  home 
and  suffered  the  torments  of  a  soul  on  fire.  Tragedy 
lay  ahead.  Stellamaris,  star  of  the  sea,  steadfast  as 
a  star — he  knew  her.  Love  had  come  to  her  not  in 
the  fluttering  Cupid  guise  in  which  he  visits  most  of 
the  sweet  maidens  among  mortals,  but  in  the  strong, 
godlike  essence  in  which  alone  he  dare  approach  the 
great  ones.  The  sea- foam  and  mist  formed  but  a  gar- 
ment for  this  creature  of  infinite  sky  and  eternal  sea. 
They  but  shrouded  or  touched  to  glamour  the  ele- 
mental strength. 

She  had  given  her  love  to  John  Risca,  her  Great 
High  Belovedest.  God  knows  what  dreams  she  had 
woven  about  him;  the  man's  fine  loyalty  asserted  his 
friend's  worthiness  of  any  woman's  dreams.  The 
only,  and  the  hideous,  consideration  was  the  fact  of 
John  being  tied  for  life  to  the  unspeakable.  Himself 
and  the  pain  of  his  love  he  put  aside.  What  were 
the  unimportant  sufferings  of  a  thousand  such  as  he 
compared  with  one  pang  that  might  shoot  through  the 
bosom  of  Stellamaris?  What  could  be  done  to  avert 
the  tragedy?  His  faith  in  John  Risca  was  absolute. 
But  John  had  shut  his  eyes  to  the  glory  shimmering 
in  front  of  them.  His  eyes  must  be  opened.  Stella- 
maris must  be  told.  All  foundations  of  the  Unwritten 
Law  would  have  to  be  swept  away,  and  she  would  sur- 
vey in  terror  the  piteous  wreckage  of  the  whole  fabric 
of  her  life. 

How  could  he  save  her?  How  could  he  save  her 
from  inevitable  pain? 


CHAPTER   XVII 

THE  next  morning  Stella  was  putting  on  her  hat, 
a  foamy  thing  of  white  tulle  and  pink  roses, 
before  her  mirror,  when  an  audacious  thought 
came  dancing  into  her  head.  It  dizzied  her  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  took  away  her  breath.  With  throbbing 
heart,  she  stood  looking  into  her  own  wide  eyes, 
which  were  filled  with  delicious  excitement. 

It  would  be  a  great  adventure.  Why  should  she  not 
embark  on  it?  She  was  free  till  luncheon,  her  uncle 
and  aunt  having  gone  out  on  their  own  errands  and 
left  her  to  the  rest  they  supposed  she  needed.  But 
she  felt  strong,  pulsatingly  strong.  She  looked  out  of 
the  window.  The  June  sunshine  allured  her.  Why 
should  she  sit  indoors  on  such  a  morning?  There  was 
not  the  faintest  shadow  of  a  reason.  But  how  should 
she  reach  her  destination?  Her  mind  worked  swiftly. 
Sir  Oliver  had  set  out  on  foot,  bound  for  Bond  Street 
and  Piccadilly.  Lady  Blount  had  declared  her  inten- 
tion to  renew  the  joys  of  her  youth,  and  go  about  in 
a  hansom,  which  had  been  procured  for  her  with  some 
difficulty  by  the  magnificent  commissionnaire.  The 
motor  was  at  Stella's  service.  She  had  only  to  order 
it,  and  it  would  come  to  the  front  door  and  carry  her 
whithersoever  she  desired. 

It  would  be  a  wild  adventure  to  feel  herself  alone 
and  independent  in  this  welter  of  London,  and  then, 
more  thrilling  still,  to  burst  in  upon  her  Great  High 
Belovedest,  not  in  his  palace, — that,  alas !  he  had  given 
up, — but  in  his  Great  High  Mansion  at  Kilburn. 

221 


222  STELLA   MARIS 

Where  Kilburn  was  she  had  not  the  remotest  idea; 
but  it  was  somewhere  in  Fairy-land.  The  chauffeur 
would  know;  he  seemed  to  know  everything1.  The 
temptation  overpowered  her.  She  yielded.  Orders 
were  given  to  a  bewildered  and  protesting  maid. 
What  would  Lady  Blount  say? 

"That  's  a  matter  between  Lady  Blount  and  my- 
self," said  Stella. 

"Can't  I  come  with  you,  miss?" 

"I  am  going  alone,  Morris."  She  had  the  gra- 
cious, but  imperative,  way  of  princesses.  Morris  dared 
argue  no  more.  She  attended  her  mistress  to  the  door 
of  the  motor,  and  saw  her  driven  away  in  prodigious 
state. 

It  was  a  glorious  adventure.  How  could  she  have 
spoiled  it  by  allowing  the  protection  of  a  prosaic  serv- 
ing-maid ?  Hitherto  she  had  not  strayed  alone  beyond 
the  confines  of  the  gardens  of  the  Channel  House. 
Now  she  had  the  thrill  of  the  first  mariner  who  lost 
sight  of  land.  She  was  on  an  unknown  sea,  bound 
for  a  port  of  dreams.  Of  the  port  she  knew  nothing 
definite.  Since  the  dispersion  of  the  apocryphal  palace 
household,  John  had  told  her  little  of  his  domestic  life. 
The  old  habit  of  deception  had  been  too  strong,  and 
her  other  intimates  had  entered  into  the  conspiracy 
of  silence.  Why  trouble  her  with  accounts  of  his 
Aunt  Gladys,  of  whom  she  had  never  heard ;  of  Unity, 
of  whom  it  were  best  that  she  should  not  hear;  of  the 
poor,  little,  economical  establishment, — Unity  at  the 
head,  watching  the  pennies — which,  together  with  the 
one  in  Fulham,  was  all  that  his  means  allowed  him  to 
maintain?  All  her  life  he  had  been  to  Stellamaris  the 
prince  eating  off  gold  plate.  Cui  bono,  to  whose  ad- 
vantage and  to  what  end,  should  he  break  the  illusion 
and  confess  to  chipped  earthenware?  Although  she 
now  recognized  (to  her  sadness)  the  palace  story  as 


STELLA    MARIS  223 

overlapping  the  fable,  and  set  Lilias  and  Niphetos  side 
by  side  with  the  cat  Bast  and  the  dog  Anubis  in  the 
shrine  of  myth,  yet  her  ingenuous  fancy  still  pictured 
Risca  as  the  writer  of  compelling  utterances  which 
caused  ministers  of  state  to  clutch  their  salaries  with 
trembling  fingers  and  potentates  to  quake  on  their 
thrones.  And  she  still  imagined  a  fitting  environment 
for  such  a  magnifico.  On  his  private  life  during  the 
week,  outside  his  work,  she  scarcely  speculated.  For 
her  it  was  spent  at  Southcliff  from  Saturday  to  Mon- 
day. It  was  difficult  to  realize  that  Southcliff  was  not 
the  world. 

The  car  sped  like  an  Arabian-Nights  carpet  through 
wide  thoroughfares  thronged  with  traffic,  up  the 
wider,  more  peaceful,  and  leafy  Maida  Vale,  passing 
broad  avenues  to  right  and  left,  and  then,  making  a 
sudden  turn,  halted  before  the  shabbiest  of  a  row  of 
shabby,  detached  little  villas.  The  chauffeur  descended, 
and  opened  the  door  of  the  car. 

"Why  have  you  stopped  here?" 

"It  's  the  address  you  gave  me,  miss." 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"Quite  sure,  miss,"  smiled  the  chauffeur.  "Fair- 
mount,  Ossington  Road,  Kilburn,  London,  North- 
West." 

Fairmont  had  been  to  her  a  mount  of  beauty  on  the 
summit  of  which  stretched  the  abode  of  her  Beloved- 
est.  The  chauffeur,  still  smiling, — for  who  could  talk 
sour-faced  to  Stellamaris  ? — pointed  to  the  gate. 

"There  it  is  written,  miss, — 'Fairmont.' ' 

She  alighted,  tears  very  near  her  eyes,  and  passing 
through  the  gates  and  tiny  front  garden,  rang  the 
bell.  The  door  was  opened  by  a  common-looking,  un- 
dersized girl  of  about  her  own  age,  dressed  in  a  tartan 
blouse  and  a  brown  stuff  skirt.  Her  nose  was  snub, 
her  mouth  wide,  her  forehead  bulged,  and  her  skimpy 


224  STELLA    MARIS 

hair  was  buckled  up  tight  with  combs  on  the  top  of 
her  head.  There  was  a  moment's  breathless  silence 
as  the  two  girls  stared  at  each  other.  At  last  Unity's 
face  broke  into  a  miracle  of  gladness,  which  trans- 
figured her  plain  features.  She  retreated  a  step  or 
two  along  the  passage. 

"Miss  Stella!  Miss  Stella!"  she  gasped,  and  as 
Stella,  still  more  amazed  and  bewildered,  said  noth- 
ing, she  drew  nearer.  "It  is  Miss  Stella,  is  n't  it?" 
she  asked. 

"Yes,"  Stella  answered.  She  paused ;  then,  recover- 
ing herself,  went  on  rather  hurriedly :  "I  've  seen  you 
before.  You  are  the  girl  who  came  once  into  my 
room — I  remember — Constable  tore  my  jacket — you 
were  mending  it — " 

"Yes,  miss,"  said  the  other,  forgetful,  in  the  sud- 
den excitement  of  again  seeing  her  goddess  face  to 
face,  of  the  precepts  of  gentility  in  which  Miss  Lin- 
don  had  trained  her. 

"It  all  comes  back,  though  it  was  long,  long  ago — 
ever  so  many  years  ago.  Your  name  is  Unity." 

"Yes,  Miss  Stella." 

"But  what  in  the  world  are  you  doing  here?" 

"Mr.  Risca  is  my  guardian.  I  keep  house  for  him 
— I  and  Aunt  Gladys." 

"Aunt  Gladys?"' 

"Mr.  Risca's  aunt,  Miss  Stella."  It  was  sweet  to 
pronounce  the  beautiful  name. 

Stella's  knees  grew  weak,  and  she  leaned  against 
the  wall.  Here  were  mysteries  of  which  John  had 
left  her  in  ignorance.  She  felt  guilty  of  unwarrant- 
able intrusion.  The  joy  of  her  adventure  was  blotted 
out.  The  shabby  villa;  the  poverty-stricken  passage; 
the  glimpse  through  an  open  door  into  a  gimcrack 
parlour,  all  bamboo  and  ribbons ;  Unity,  the  little  sew- 
ing-girl who  was  John's  ward;  the  unheard  of  Aunt 


STELLA    MARIS  225 

Gladys — all  was  shock,  sending  dreams  into  limbo, 
startling  an  unready  mind  into  a  whirling  chaos  of 
conjecture.  Too  late  she  realized  that,  had  he  wanted 
her  there,  he  would  have  invited  her.  He  would  be 
vexed  at  her  coming.  Her  cheeks  burned. 

"Is  he  at  home?"  she  faltered. 

She  heard  with  incredible  relief  that  he  had  gone 
into  town  on  business.  Miss  Lindon  happening  to  be 
in  bed  with  a  slight  cold,  the  duties  of  hospitality  de- 
volved on  Unity. 

"Won't  you  come  in  and  sit  down  for  a  minute, 
Miss  Stella?" 

"I  am  afraid  I  must  n't." 

"Oh,  why?    Do  come." 

Unity  stretched  out  her  hand  timidly.  The  gesture 
and  the  pleading  in  the  girl's  eyes  made  a  strong  ap- 
peal. Youth  also  called  to  youth. 

"Just  for  a  minute.    It  would  make  me  so  happy." 

Stella  could  not  refuse.  They  entered  the  little 
drawing-room.  Stella  had  never  seen  such  a  funny, 
prim  room  before.  She  sat  down  on  the  slippery  sofa. 
Unity  fixed  on  her  the  eyes  of  a  spaniel  brought  into 
the  presence  of  a  long-lost  mistress. 

"I  think  you  're  even  more  beautiful  than  when  I 
saw  you  before,"  she  said,  abruptly. 

Somewhat  confused,  Stella  smiled.  "I  am  well 
now,  like  other  people,  so  that  's  perhaps  why  I  look 
better." 

"When  I  heard  of  it,  I  cried  with  joy." 

"You,  my  dear?     Why?" 

"I  'd  been  thinking  of  you  all  the  time — all  the 
time." 

And  Stella  had  never  given  a  thought  to  Unity, 
though  dramatic  incidents  at  the  Channel  House  had 
not  been  so  frequent  that  the  sight  of  Unity  had  not 
brought  back  to  her  mind  the  circumstances  of  the 


226  STELLA    MARIS 

episode.  Stay,  had  she  remembered  all  the  circum- 
stances ? 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  moved  by  the  girl's  almost 
passionate  sincerity,  "I  remember  you  well.  I  wanted 
you  so  much  to  come  back  and  talk  to  me,  and  I  asked 
for  you;  but  they  told  me  that  you  went  away  that 
afternoon.  What  were  you  doing  at  the  Channel 
House?" 

"I  had  been  ill,  and  my  guardian  asked  her  lady- 
ship to  let  me  stay  there  for  a  bit." 

"But  they  told  me,"  cried  Stella,  the  missing  cir- 
cumstance coming  in  a  flash,  "that  you  were  a  village 
girl  who  had  been  brought  in  for  a  day's  sewing." 

Unity  flushed  brick-red,  realizing  her  indiscretion. 
She  knew  well  enough  now  why  she  had  been  forbid- 
den the  sea-chamber. 

"I  was  a  noisy,  horrid,  badly-brought-up  child,"  she 
said,  "and  they  were  afraid  I  should  worry  you. 
That  was  why,"  she  said,  with  a  slight  air  of  defiance. 

Stella  was  not  convinced ;  the  story  lacked  the  ring 
of  truth  that  characterized  Unity's  other  statements. 
She  felt  that  for  some  unknown  reason  they  had  lied 
to  her,  and  that  in  order  to  bear  them  out  Unity  was 
lying.  Her  loyalty  and  delicacy  forbade  her  question- 
ing Unity  further. 

"If  you  were  horrid,  you  would  n't  have  remem- 
bered me  all  this  time,"  she  said,  with  a  smile. 

"That  's  just  how  you  looked  when  I  called  you 
'my  lady/  "  said  Unity.  "How  do  you  think  one 
could  forget  you?  Besides,  Mr.  Herold  is  always 
talking  about  you." 

Stella  opened  her  eyes.  "Do  you  know  Mr.  Her- 
old, too?" 

"Of  course.     He  's  my  guardian's  dearest  friend." 

Stella's  heart  sank  lower.  Her  Great  High  Fa- 
vourite, too,  was  in  this  conspiracy  of  concealment. 


STELLA   MARIS  227 

"Does — does  your  guardian  ever  speak  of  me  ?" 

"Why  should  he?"  asked  Unity. 

The  queer  retort  puzzled  Stella. 

The  other,  seeing  the  implied  question  in  her  glance, 
continued :  "I  should  n't  dare  to  ask  him.  He  's  too 
great  and  wonderful."  Again  the  transfiguring  light 
swept  over  her  coarse  features.  "It  's  beautiful  of 
him  to  let  me  do  things  for  him." 

"What  do  you  do?" 

"I  look  after  his  clothes,  mend  and  darn  and  buy 
things  for  him,  and  I  dust  his  books  and  see  that  he 
has  what  he  likes  to  eat  and,  oh,  hundreds  of  things — 
just  so  that  he  sha'n't  have  any  worry  at  all." 

A  new  pain  began  to  creep  round  Stella's  heart,  one 
she  had  never  felt  before,  one  that  frightened  her. 

"Tell  me  some  more,"  she  said. 

And  Unity,  her  tongue  loosened  as  it  was  with 
no  one  else  in  the  world  save  Walter  Herold,  talked 
of  the  trivial  round  of  her  days  and  the  Olympian 
majesty  of  John  Risca. 

"You  must  love  him  very  much,"  said  Stella. 

A  glow  came  into  her  patient  eyes  as  she  nodded 
and  fixed  them  on  Stellamaris ;  and  then  a  tear  started. 

"Does  n't  everybody  love  him?" 

She  rose  abruptly.  "Would  you  like  me  to  show 
you  his  room,  Miss  Stella — the  room  he  works  in?" 

Stella  rose,  too.     "He  might  not  like  it,"  she  said. 

This  was  a  point  of  view  incomprehensible  to  Unity. 
Even  the  all-great  master  must  bow  to  the  sanctifica- 
tion  brought  into  the  house  by  Stella's  feet.  She  said 
softly: 

"He  worships  the  ground  you  tread  on.  Don't  you 
know  that?" 

Stella  flushed,  and  evaded  the  question. 

"You  think  that  if  I  'm  afraid  to  go  into  his  room 
I  don't  care  for  him?  It  is  n't  that.  I — I  love  him 


228  STELLA    MARTS 

more  than  anything  else  in  the  world.  I — "  she 
stopped  short,  and  the  flush  deepened,  for  she  realized 
•what  she  was  saying.  "It  is  something  I  can't  quite 
explain  to  you,"  she  continued,  after  a  pause.  "In 
fact,  I  ought  n't  to  stay  any  longer." 

Despite  unregenerate  Fatima  temptation,  despite  a 
girl's  romantic  desire  to  see  the  table  at  which  the  dear 
one  writes  his  immortal  prose,  she  could  pry  no  fur- 
ther into  her  Great  Belovedest's  home.  She  had  pried 
too  much  already  for  her  peace  of  mind. 

She  put  out  her  hand.  Unity  took  it,  and,  holding 
it,  looked  up  into  her  face.  She  was  squat  and  under- 
sized ;  Stella  was  slim  and  tall. 

"I  thought  I  should  never  see  you  again,"  she  said, 
in  a  low  voice. 

"I  hope  now  we  shall  see  each  other  often,"  replied 
Stella,  and  drawn  toward  the  girl  by  the  magnetism  of 
her  love,  she  kissed  her  on  both  cheeks. 

But  she  drove  away  in  the  magnificent  limousine 
very  heavy-hearted,  out  of  tune  with  life.  She  seemed 
to  be  living  in  an  atmosphere  of  lies,  from  which  her 
candid  soul  passionately  revolted.  She  met  them  at 
every  turn.  Once  more  the  world  became  the  Threat- 
ening Land  full  of  hidden  ugliness,  only  awaiting  op- 
portunity to  be  revealed.  The  glamour  of  the  last 
day  or  two  in  London  had  gone.  When  John  Risca, 
truly  her  belovedest,  when  Walter  Herold,  whom  in 
her  simplicity  she  had  regarded  all  her  life  less  as  a 
man  than  as  a  kind  of  Adonais  spirit,  when  all,  all 
she  loved  had  lied  to  her  persistently  for  years,  to 
whom  and  to  what  could  she  pin  her  faith?  Who 
would  guide  her  through  this  land  of  which  she  was 
so  ignorant,  this  land  so  thickly  set  with  cruel  traps? 

John  was  poor  and  struggling  and  lived  in  a  shabby 
little  house.  Had  she  known  it,  the  fact  would  have 
made  him  all  the  dearer.  But  why  had  he  given  her 


STELLA   MARTS  229 

to  believe  that  he  lived  in  fantastic  luxury?  Why  had 
he  lied?  Why  had  he  not  told  her  of  Unity — Unity 
who  was  so  interwoven  in  his  life,  Unity  who  looked 
after  his  very  clothes  ?  A  sudden  thought  smote  her, 
and  a  scalding  wave  of  shame  lapped  her  from  head 
to  foot.  She  had  proposed  to  buy  his  ties.  She  hated 
herself  for  the  proposal,  and  she  hated  herself  for 
starting  on  this  lamentable  adventure  of  indiscretion. 
She  became  aware  that  the  new,  frightening  pain  that 
had  crept  round  her  heart  was  jealousy,  and  she  hated 
herself  for  the  ignoble  passion.  She  felt  it  like  a 
stain  upon  her. 

A  slight  smirch  upon  a  gown  of  gray  (such  as  most 
of  us  wear)  escapes  notice ;  but  on  a  robe  of  white  it 
stands  out  in  hideous  accusation. 

The  butterfly  that  had  left  the  hotel  so  gaily  re- 
turned with  sorry  wings  from  which  the  gossamer 
had  been  rubbed.  She  crept  into  her  bedroom,  where 
Lady  Blount,  coming  in  a  while  later,  found  her  lying 
somewhat  feverish  on  the  bed.  At  the  sight  of  her 
aunt,  she  sprang  up  to  make  instant  and  spirited  con- 
fession. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  've  done  this  morning?  I 
thought  I  would  give  John  a  surprise  and  I  took  the 
car  to  Kilburn.  .He  was  not  at  home,  but  I  saw  the 
girl  Unity,  his  ward.'' 

Lady  Blount  looked  at  her  in  terrible  dismay. 

"My  darling,  you  ought  n't  to  have  done  it." 

"I  know,  Auntie.  And  when  you  see  John,  will 
you  tell  him  how  sorry  I  am,  and  give  him  my  apolo- 
gies." 

"Apologies?" 

"Yes.  It  was  ill-breeding  on  my  part.  He  has  a 
perfect  right  to  keep  his  home  affairs  to  himself,  and 
I  should  not  have  intruded.  You  must  apologize  for 
me." 


230  STELLA    MARIS 

It  was  a  very  proud  and  dignified  Stella  that  spoke, 
a  spot  of  red  burning  on  each  cheek,  and  her  slim  fig- 
ure held  very  erect. 

"I  hope,  my  darling,"  said  Lady  Blount,  longing  to 
ask  a  more  direct  question — "I  hope  that  girl  was  n't 
rude  to  you." 

"Unity  rude  ?"  Stella  knitted  her  brow.  The  idea 
was  ludicrous.  "On  the  contrary,  like  the  rest 
of  you,  she  is  far  too  fond  of  me.  I  don't  know 
why;  it  's  very  odd.  And  she  is  devoted  body  and 
soul  to  John.  She  has  a  fine,  great,  generous 
nature." 

The  stain  of  jealousy  should  be  wiped  away,  if  she 
could  possibly  manage  it. 

"I  believe  she  is  a  very  good  girl,  though  I  have  n't 
seen  her — " 

"Since  she  stayed  at  Southcliff?"  said  Stella  with 
steady  eyes. 

"I — I  was  just  going  to  say  so,"  Lady  Blount  stam- 
mered. The  situation  was  perplexing.  "And  John 
does  n't  often  speak  of  her."  She  made  rather  a  fail- 
ure of  a  smile.  "And  what  did  the  two  of  you  talk 
about?" 

The  bitter  knowledge  of  good  and  evil  was  coming 
fast  to  Stellamaris.  A  little  while  ago  her  innocence 
would  have  taken  the  question  at  its  face-value ;  now, 
perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  to  suspect  disin- 
genuousness,  she  penetrated  to  the  poor  little  diplo- 
macy lying  beneath. 

"Chiefly  of  John  and  myself — of  nothing  very  par- 
ticular," she  replied.  "I  did  n't  stay  long." 

She  saw  the  repression  of  Lady  Blount's  sigh  of  re- 
lief. Swiftly  she  drew  her  deductions.  They  were 
all  concealing  something  from  her,  and  the  fact  of 
their  concealment  proved  it  to  be  something  shameful 
and  abominable.  Her  bosom  rose  in  revolt  against 


STELLA   MARIS  231 

the  world.  Lift  but  a  corner  of  the  fairest  thing  in 
life,  and  you  found  the  ugliness  below. 

She  sat  on  the  bed  by  the  foot-rail,  and  rested  her 
throbbing  head  on  her  hand. 

"Your  little  escapade  has  upset  you,  darling,"  said 
Lady  Blount,  weakly;  "but  it  was  nothing  very  se- 
rious, after  all.  If  John  's  furious  when  he  hears  of 
it,  it  '11  only  be  because  he  was  not  there  to  welcome 
you  himself." 

"I  'm  not  afraid  of  John  being  furious,  Auntie," 
said  Stella.  "It  's  not  that  at  all.  You  don't  under- 
stand." 

"I  don't  think  I  do,  dear,"  said  poor  Lady  Blount. 
She  sat  down  beside  the  girl  and  put  a  loving  arm 
round  her.  "Tell  me  what  it  is." 

But  this  was  more  than  Stella  could  do.  To  speak 
would  be  to  accuse  and  reproach,  and  she  could  not 
accuse  or  reproach  any  of  her  dear  ones.  Yet  she 
needed  the  comfort  like  any  other  young  and  suffering 
soul.  She  surrendered  to  the  elder  woman's  caress, 
feeling  very  weary. 

"Perhaps  I  'm  not  as  strong  as  I  thought  I  was, 
Auntie,"  she  said. 

The  confession  stirred  all  the  mothering  instincts 
in  Lady  Blount.  With  physical  things  she  could  grap- 
ple. She  tended  her  with  her  thin,  deft  hands  and 
persuaded  her  to  lie  down. 

"My  poor  lamb,  London  is  too  much  for  you. 
Never  mind.  We  're  going  home  to-morrow." 

"I  shall  never  want  to  leave  home  again,"  said 
Stella. 

It  was  half -past  one.  Sir  Oliver  was  lunching  and 
spending  the  afternoon  at  his  club.  A  tray  was 
brought  to  Stella's  bed,  and  Lady  Blount  pecked  at  a 
flustered  woman's  meal  in  the  sitting-room. 

"What  about  John  and  the  pictures,  darling?"  she 


232  STELLA    MARIS 

asked  when  she  rejoined  Stella.  It  had  been  arranged 
for  John  to  call  for  them  at  three  o'clock  and  take 
them  to  the  Royal  Academy. 

"I  don't  think  I  feel  equal  to  it,"  said  Stella,  truly. 
She  was  not  yet  quite  "like  every  one  else."  Her  sen- 
sitive nature  also  shrank  from  meeting  John.  Be- 
fore him  she  would  shrivel  up  with  shame.  "You  go 
with  him,  Auntie ;  I  '11  rest  here  and  read." 

On  the  stroke  of  three  came  John,  who,  having  been 
detained  on  his  business  in  town,  had  not  gone  home 
for  luncheon.  It  was  therefore  from  Lady  Blount 
that  he  heard  of  Stella's  adventure.  He  listened  with 
his  heavy  frown,  moving  restlessly  about  the  room, 
his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"I  would  give  a  thousand  pounds  for  it  not  to  have 
happened,"  said  he. 

"It  's  done  now.    We  must  make  the  best  of  it." 

"Unity  was  discreet  ?    Are  you  sure  ?" 

"Quite  sure." 

He  walked  about  for  a  while  in  silence. 

"Perhaps  it  's  just  as  well  Stella  should  know  so 
much,"  he  conceded,  "though  I  would  rather  she  had 
learned  it  differently.  I  suppose  she  was  somewhat 
upset?" 

"She  's  still  delicate,"  said  Lady  Blount,  "and  she  's 
all  sensitiveness — always  has  been,  as  you  know.  I 
have  made  her  lie  down." 

He  swung  round  sharply. 

"She  's  not  ill?"  he  asked. 

"No,  not  ill ;  but  exertion  easily^  tires  her.  And 
she  's  afraid  you  '11  be  angry  with  her,  and  miserable 
because  she  thinks  she  did  an  ill-bred  thing  in  intrud- 
ing on  your  privacy.  She  's  deeply  ashamed;  she 
feels  acutely.  She  's  not  like  other  girls.  We  've  got 
to  realize  it.  She  wants  me  to  apologize  to  you — " 

"Stella  apologize  to  me!     Stella!"  he  shouted  in 


STELLA    MARIS  233 

amazement  and  indignation.  "We  '11  soon  see  about 
that!" 

He  strode  toward  the  door  leading  into  Stella's 
room.  Lady  Blount  checked  him. 

"Don't,  John.     I  would  n't  see  her  now." 

"Do  you  think  I  'd  leave  her  a  minute  to  suffer 
fear  and  misery  and  shame?" 

"You  exaggerate,  dear." 

"Those  were  your  words.  No,  Julia.  I  must  set 
this  right." 

Stellamaris  suffering,  afraid  of  him,  miserable,  and 
ashamed!  As  well  say  Stella  beaten,  Stella  thumb- 
screwed,  Stella  thrown  to  wolves !  It  was  intolerable. 
He  forgot  his  resolutions. 

With  rough  gentleness  he  thrust  Lady  Blount  aside 
and,  opening  the  door,  slightly  ajar,  caught  sight  of 
Stella  lying,  wrapper-clad,  upon  the  bed.  He  entered 
in  his  impetuous  fashion  and  slammed  the  door  behind 
him. 

"Darling,  don't  worry.  Julia  has  told  me.  It  ?s 
only  you  that  could  have  had  the  beautiful  idea  of 
coming  to  see  me.  I  love  you  for  it,  and  I  could  kick 
myself  for  not  being  at  home." 

Instinctively  and  unthinkingly,  as  if  he  had  been  in 
the  sea-chambef,  he  sat  down  heavily  beside  her  and 
took  her  two  hands.  Her  brown  eyes  looked  piteously 
into  his. 

"Stella,  darling,  it  's  I  that  must  ask  for  forgive- 
ness for  not  having  prepared  you.  Years  ago,  when 
you  were  little,  I  began  the  silly  story  of  the  palace 
to  amuse  and  interest  you;  and  I  had  a  lot  of  troubles, 
dear,  and  it  helped  me  to  bear  them  to  come  to  you 
and  live  with  you  in  a  fairy-tale.  And  then  it  was  so 
hard  to  undeceive  you  when  I  found  you  believed  it. 
I  tried — you  must  remember." 

"Yes,  dear,"  she  said,  feeling  very  weak  and  fool- 


234  STELLA    MARTS 

ishly  comforted  by  the  nervous  grasp  of  his  great 
hands.  "Yes,  I  remember." 

"You  were  there  on  your  bed  by  the  window,"  he 
continued,  "and  every  one  thought  you  would  never 
rise  from  it.  So  what  was  the  good  of  telling  you 
just  the  weary  prose  of  life?  What  place  could  it 
have  in  the  poetry  of  yours?  And  I  was  selfish, 
Stella  darling;  I  used  to  come  to  you  for  something 
sweet  and  pure  and  lovely  that  the  wide  wide  world 
could  n't  give  me.  And  I  got  it,  and  it  sent  me  away 
strong  for  the  battle;  and  I  Ve  had  to  fight,  dear — 
to  fight  hard  sometimes.  And  when  you  got  well  and 
came  out  into  the  world,  I  felt  it  was  necessary  to  tell 
you  something  more  about  myself — that  there  never 
had  been  a  palace;  that  I  was  just  a  poor,  hard-work- 
ing journalist;  that  I  had  adopted  a  little  girl  called 
Unity,  whose  life  had  not  been  of  the  happiest;  that 
she  and  an  old  aunt  of  mine  kept  house  for  me:  but 
our  old  life  went  on  so  smoothly,  and  I  still  got  the 
help  and  courage  and  faith  I  needed  from  you,  that 
I  put  off*  telling  you  from  week  to  week.  That  's  the 
explanation,  darling.  And  now  I  'm  glad,  more  than 
glad,  you  came  to-day.  Don't  you  believe  me?" 

"Yes,  Belovedest,"  she  sighed.     "I  believe  you." 

He  went  on,  finding  in  her  presence  his  old  power 
of  artistic  expression.  In  the  overwhelming  desire 
to  bring  back  the  laughter  to  those  wonderful  eyes 
that  met  his  he  forgot  prudence,  forgot  the  fact  that 
he  was  making  a  passionate  appeal.  He  was  pleading 
her  cause  with  happiness,  not  his  own.  It  was  the 
purest  in  the  love  of  the  man  that  spoke.  Again  he 
wound  up  by  claiming  her  faith.  And  again,  this 
time  with  soft,  melting  eyes,  she  said,  "Yes,  Beloved- 
est, I  believe  you." 

What  else  could  she  say,  poor  child?  Here  was 
her  hero  among  men  belittling  himself  just  for  her 


STELLA   MARIS  235 

glorification.  Here  was  his  strong1,  beloved  face 
wrought  into  an  intensity  of  pleading.  Here  he  was 
using  tones  of  his  deep  voice  that  made  every  chord 
in  her  vibrate.  Cloud-compeller,  he  cleared  her  over- 
cast horizon  to  radiance.  Is  there  a  woman  breathing, 
be  she  never  so  cynical,  who,  in  the  sunshine  of  her 
heart,  does  not  believe  in  the  sun? 

She  laughed  and  drew  his  hands  to  her  face.  "So 
you  think  I  've  been  making  mountains  out  of  mole- 
hills?" 

"Out  of  molecules,"  said  he. 

She  laughed  one  of  her  adorable,  childish  little 
laughs.  But  the  woman  whispered,  "Forgive  me,  Be- 
lovedest." 

Time  has  invented  but  one  proof  of  forgiveness  in 
such  a  case,  and  eternity  will  not  find  a  substitute. 
Obeying  the  everlasting  law,  he  proved  his  forgive- 
ness; but  he  mastered  himself  sufficiently  to  draw  back 
the  moment  their  lips  had  touched.  He  rose  to  his  feet* 

"Now  we  're  quite  happy,  are  n't  we?" 

A  little  murmur  signified  assent.  Then  she  sat  up, 
and  swung  her  legs  daintily  over  the  side  of  the  bed, 
and,  flushed,  happy,  and  adorably  dishevelled,  looked 
at  him. 

"And  now,"  she  cried  gaily,  "if  you  '11  let  me  put 
on  my  frock,  I  '11  come  with  you  and  auntie  to  see 
the  pictures." 

He  remonstrated.  She  was  tired  out ;  she  must  rest. 
But  she  stood  up  and  faced  him. 

"I  want  to  be  happy  to-day.  Tiredness  does  n't 
count.  I  shall  be  at  the  Channel  House  to-morrow, 
and  I  can  rest  for  a  month." 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  led  him  to  the 
door.  In  the  next  room  Lady  Blount  was  anxiously 
awaiting  him.  He  took  her  lean  shoulders  in  his 
bear's  hug* 


236  STELLA    MARIS 

"All  right,  Julia.  She  's  perfectly  happy,  and  she  's 
coming  with  us  to  the  Royal  Academy." 

So  once  more  that  day  was  the  limousine  ordered 
to  the  hotel  entrance,  and  once  more  Stellamaris  en- 
tered it  with  a  sense  of  high,  but  now  delectably  safe, 
adventure,  this  time  helped  in  by  John  as  tenderly 
as  though  she  were  a  thing  of  spun  glass  and  moon- 
beams. And  they  drove  away  joyously  to  see  one  of 
the  most  beautiful,  but  at  the  same  time,  one  of  the 
saddest  sights  of  the  world — the  aspiring,  yet  fettered, 
souls,  the  unrealized  dreams,  the  agonized  hopes,  indi- 
vidually concrete,  of  thousands  of  God's  elect  on  this 
imperfect  earth. 

John  Risca,  absorbed  in  the  laughter  he  had  brought 
back  to  precious  eyes,  did  not  see  a  thin-lipped  woman 
dressed  in  black  slip  behind  one  of  the  porphyry  col- 
umns of  the  portico  as  they  drove  out.  And  the 
woman  meant  that  he  should  not  see,  as  she  had  meant 
it  hundreds  of  times  before  during  the  last  six  years. 
Had  he  done  so,  there  would  have  been  an  end  to  the 
intense,  relentless,  and  diabolically  patient  purpose  of 
her  life. 


THEN   SHE   SAT   UP,    AND  .  .  .   FLUSHED,   HAPPY.   AXD   ADORABLY  DISHEVELLED, 
LOOKED    AT    HIM 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

CONSTABLE,  dragging  the  feet  of  an  old  hound, 
mounted  the  stairs  behind  Stellamaris  and  fol- 
lowed her  into  the  sea-chamber,  and  to  the 
south  window,  whither  she  went  instinctively  to  gaze 
out  over  her  beloved  sea,  now  gray  and  choppy,  as  the 
sky  was  overcast  and  a  fresh  breeze  was  blowing.  He 
had  been  the  most  unhappy  dog  alive,  they  told  her, 
during  her  absence.  Since  his  dim,  far-away  puppy- 
hood  not  a  day  had  passed  without  his  spending  hours 
in  her  company.  She  had  been  the  reason  of  his  ex- 
istence. The  essential  one  gone,  there  was  nothing  to 
live  for;  so  at  first  he  had  wandered  round  in  a  be- 
wildered way  looking  for  her,  and  then,  not  finding 
her,  he  had  refused  food  and  pined,  and,  had  she 
stayed  away  much  longer,  would  have  died  of  a  broken 
heart,  after  the  manner  of  deep-natured  dogs.  When 
she  arrived,  he  was  at  the  gate  to  meet  her.  At  her 
magical  appearance  he  tried  to  prance  as  in  his  youth- 
ful days,  and  lashed  the  whip  of  his  tail  against  the 
iron  railings  so  that  it  bled.  Sobered  by  age,  he  had 
not  had  what  Stella  used  to  call  a  "bluggy"  tail  (the 
disability  of  his  race)  for  years.  But  as  prancing  and 
tail-lashing  and  whinnying  do  not  accord  with  the 
muscles  and  wind  of  an  old  dog,  and  as  his  heart  was 
full,  he  had  lain  down  at  her  feet,  his  snout  beyond 
his  paws,  trembling  all  through  his  great  bulk.  And 
it  was  only  after  she  had  knelt  on  the  ground  beside 
him,  thereby  blocking  the  path  to  Sir  Oliver  and  Lady 
Blount,  to  say  nothing  of  Morris,  the  maid,  and  Sim- 

237 


238  STELLA    MARIS 

mons,  the  gardener,  and  the  hand  luggage,  and  had 
caressed  and  kissed  him,  that  he  had  found  strength 
to  stagger  to  his  feet  and  make  way  for  his  fellow- 
humans.  After  that  he  had  not  left  her  for  a  second. 
Who  could  tell  but  that  she  might  vanish  again  into 
thin  air,  this  time  not  to  be  reincarnated?  Descartes, 
who  said  that  the  lower  animals  were  automata,  could 
never  have  known  the  wonder  of  a  dog's  love. 

Constable  followed  Stella  to  the  window  and  snug- 
gled his  great  head  into  the  curve  of  her  waist.  Her 
arm,  soft  and  precious,  drooped  about  his  neck.  Con- 
stable and  the  sea  and  herself  had  been  secret-sharing 
companions  since  the  world  was  young.  So  she  stood 
for  a  long  time  by  the  open  window,  drinking  in  the 
salt  of  the  sea-breeze,  and  communing,  in  her  own 
way,  with  the  elemental  spirit  of  the  waters.  Pres- 
ently she  turned  with  a  sigh,  bent  down,  and  took  the 
old  hound's  slobbering  chaps  between  her  hands  and 
looked  into  his  patient  eyes. 

"Are  you  glad  I  'm  back,  dear  High  Constable  dar- 
ling? Very  glad?  Not  gladder  than  I  am,  dear.  No; 
you  can't  be.  You  Ve  never  been  to  London.  Oh, 
you  would  hate  it.  It  pretends  to  be  a  beautiful  place, 
but  it  is  n't.  It  's  a  sham,  dear.  I  'm  sure  you  Ve 
never  heard  of  a  whited  sepulchre ;  but  that  's  what  it 
is.  And  London  's  the  world,  my  precious,  and  the 
world  is  n't  a  bit  like  what  you  and  I  were  led  to  ex- 
pect. It  's  full  of  ugliness  and  wickedness,  and  no- 
body can  get  at  the  truth  of  anything."  Still  fond- 
ling him,  she  sat  on  the  window-seat.  "Yes ;  you  and 
I  are  very  much  better  off  here.  If  you  went  abroad, 
you  'd  be  such  a  miserable  Constable.  You  would, 
darling."  She  looked  tragically  at  him,  and  he,  re- 
sponsive to  the  doleful  tones  of  her  voice,  regarded 
her  in  mournful  sympathy. 

Then  she  laughed,  and  kissed  him  between  the  eyes. 


STELLA    MARIS  239 

"But  I  do  so  want  to  be  happy.  I  '11  tell  you  a  secret 
— oh,  a  great,  great  secret — that  no  one  knows."  She 
lifted  the  velvet  flap  of  his  ear  and  whispered  some- 
thing below  her  breath,  which  Constable  must  have 
understood,  for  he  laid  his  cheek  against  hers; 
and  so  they  stayed  until  Morris,  intent  on  unpacking, 
disturbed  their  peace. 

Then  came  a  day  or  two  of  rest  during  which  she 
strove  to  reconcile  the  irreconcilable, — her  dreams  in 
the  sea-chamber  and  the  realities  outside, — using  her 
newly  found  love  for  talisman.  And  just  as  she 
was  trying  to  forget  the  ugliness  of  the  world,  a 
domestic  incident  cast  her  back  into  gloom  and 
doubt. 

One  morning  she  entered  the  morning-room  on  a 
scene  of  tragedy.  Sir  Oliver  stood  with  his  back  to 
the  fire,  looking  weakly  fierce  and  twirling  his  white 
moustache;  Lady  Blount  sat  stern  and  upright  in  a 
chair.  A  bulky  policeman,  bare-headed,  stood  at  at- 
tention in  the  corner, — there  is  something  terrifically 
intimate  about  an  unhelmeted  policeman, — while,  in 
front  of  them  all,  a  kitchen-maid  in  a  pink  cotton 
dress  sobbed  bitterly  into  a  smudgy  apron. 

Stella  paused  astonished  on  the  threshold. 
"Why—"  she  began. 

"My  dear,"  said  Sir  Oliver,  "will  you  kindly  leave 
us?" 

But  Stella  advanced  into  the  room.  "What  is  Mr. 
Withers  doing  here?" 

Mr.  Withers  was  the  policeman,  and  a  valued  ac- 
quaintance of  Stellamaris. 

"Go  away,  darling,"  said  Lady  Blount.  "This  has 
nothing  to  do  with  you." 

But  Stella  had  been  accustomed  to  rule  in  that 
house.  Anything  that  happened  in  it  was  her  con- 
cern. Besides,  she  would  have  ugly  things  hidden 


24o  STELLA    MARIS 

away  from  her  no  longer;  and  here  was  obviously  an 
ugly  thing. 

"No,  my  dears,"  she  said  in  her  clear  voice;  "I 
must  stay.  Tell  me,  why  is  Eliza  crying?" 

"She  's  a  wicked  thief,"  said  Lady  Blount. 

Then  Stella  caught  sight  of  a  couple  of  rings  and 
a  brooch  and  a  five-pound  note  lying  on  a  table. 

"Did  she  steal  those?" 

Sir  Oliver  explained.  The  articles  had  been  stolen 
during  their  absence  in  town.  He  had  applied  to  the 
police,  with  the  result  that  the  theft  had  been  traced 
to  Eliza. 

So  that  was  a  thief — that  miserable,  broad-faced 
girl.  Stella  looked  at  her  with  fearful  curiosity. 
She  had  heard  of  thieves  and  conceived  them  to  be 
desperate  outcasts  herding  in  the  sunless  alleys  of 
great  cities,  their  hideous  faces  pitted  with  crime,  as 
with  smallpox ;  she  never  imagined  that  they  came  into 
sheltered  homes. 

"What  is  Mr.  Withers  going  to  do  with  her?" 

"Take  her  to  prison,"  said  Sir  Oliver,  whereat  the 
culprit  wailed  louder. 

"What  is  prison?"  asked  Stella. 

"A  place  where  they  lock  you  up  for  months,  some- 
times for  years,  in  a  stone  cell,  and  make  you  sleep 
on  a  plank  bed,  and  you  have  to  pick  oakum  all  day 
long,  and  are  known  by  a  number,  and — er — " 

"Please,  Oliver!"  remonstrated  Lady  Blount. 

"I  want  to  know,  Auntie,"  said  Stella,  a  gracious, 
white-clad  figure  standing  in  the  midst  of  them.  She 
turned  to  the  policeman. 

"Are  you  going  to  take  her  to  prison?" 

"If  Sir  Oliver  charges  her,  miss." 

"Of  course  I  'm  going  to  charge  her,"  cried  Sir 
Oliver.     "It  's  my  duty."     He  drew  himself  up. 
should  be  failing  in  it  if  I  did  n't." 


STELLA    MARIS  241 

"Then  it  depends  on  you,  Uncle,  whether  she  is 
locked  up  or  goes  free  ?" 

"That  's  so,  miss,"  replied  the  policeman.  "I  can't 
arrest  her  unless  some  one  charges  her." 

"What  do  you  say,  Auntie?" 

"It  's  very  painful,  dear.  That  is  why  I  did  n't 
want  you  to  come  in.  But  people  who  do  these  things 
have  to  be  punished." 

"But  why  have  they  to  be  punished?"  Stella  asked, 
feeling  curiously  calm  and  remote  from  them  all. 

"They  must  be  made  examples  of,  dear.  They 
must  n't  be  let  loose  on  society,"  said  Sir  Oliver.  "It 's 
a  duty  to  one's  country,  a  duty  to  one's  neighbours. 
I  'm  afraid  you  don't  understand,  Stella.  I  implore 
you  to  leave  this  matter  in  our  hands." 

It  was  strange  how  the  girl  whom  they  had  reared 
in  blank  ignorance  of  life  remained  supreme  arbiter 
of  the  situation.  She  said: 

"You  are  afraid  that  if  she  were  set  free,  she  would 
rob  somebody  else?" 

"Of  course  she  would,"  said  Sir  Oliver,  testily. 

"Would  you,  Eliza?"  asked  Stellamaris. 

Thus  appealed  to,  the  guilty  little  wretch  threw  her- 
self on  the  ground,  in  horrible  abasement,  at  Stella's 
feet. 

"Oh,  Miss  Stella,  don't  let  them  put  me  in  prison ! 
For  God's  sake !  don't  let  them  put  me  in  prison !  I  '11 
never  do  it  again.  I  swear  I  won't.  Save  me,  Miss 
Stella!"— She  clutched  the  white  skirts — "Don't  let 
them  send  me  to  prison." 

She  continued  in  terrified  reiteration.  Stella  felt 
an  icicle  in  her  bosom  in  place  of  a  heart.  She  had 
never  before  seen  humanity  lowered  to  the  depths. 

"Why  did  you  do  it?" 

The  crouching  thing  did  not  know.  The  drawer 
of  the  dressing-table  had  been  left  unlocked.  She  had 


242  STELLA    MARTS 

been  tempted.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  stole  any- 
thing. She  would  never  do  it  again.  And  then  she 
cried  again,  "Don't  let  them  send  me  to  prison !" 

"Julia,  can't  you  prevent  her  making  such  a  noise  ?" 
said  Sir  Oliver. 

The  bulky  policeman,  desiring  to  carry  out  Sir  Oli- 
ver's wishes,  came  forward  and  laid  his  hand  on  the 
girl's  shoulder.  She  screamed.  Stella  touched  him 
on  the  arm,  and  he  stood  up  straight.  Then  she 
opened  the  door. 

"Thank  you  very  much,  Mr.  Withers,  for  your 
trouble ;  but  we  are  not  going  to  have  this  girl  put  in 
prison." 

The  kitchen-maid  lay  a  huddled,  sobbing  mass  on 
the  floor. 

"You  're  doing  a  very  foolish  thing,  Stella,"  said 
Sir  Oliver. 

"You  had  much  better  let  your  uncle  and  me  deal 
with  this,"  said  Lady  Blount. 

"My  dears,"  said  Stella,  very  white,  very  dispas- 
sionate, cold  steel  from  head  to  foot,  "if  you  put  this 
girl  in  prison,  I  shall  go  mad.  All  the  things  you  have 
taught  me  would  have  .no  meaning.  We  say  every 
day,  'Forgive  us  our  trespasses,  as  we  forgive  them 
that  trespass  against  us.' ' 

"But,  my  darling  child,  that  's  quite  different,"  said 
Sir  Oliver.  "That  's  a  form  of  words  referring  to 
spiritual  things.  This  is  practical  life." 

"Is  that  true,  Auntie  ?" 

"No,  dear,  not  quite.  It  's  most  difficult  to  know 
how  to  act,"  replied  Lady  Blount,  resting  her  weary 
old  head  on  her  hand.  "Do  as  you  like,  child.  What 
you  do  can't  be  wrong." 

Stella  turned  to  the  policeman,  who  had  been  look- 
ing from  one  to  the  other  and  wondering  from  whom 
he  should  take  his  final  instructions. 


STELLA    MARIS  243 

"We  sha'n't  need  you  any  more,  Mr.  Withers." 

"Very  good,  miss." 

He  saluted  and  went  away.  Stella  shook  the  girl 
by  the  arm. 

"Get  up,"  she  commanded,  "and  go  to  your  room. 
Don't  speak.  I  can't  bear  it.  Go." 

The  maid  picked  herself  up  and  rushed  out  of  the 
room.  Stella  confronted  the  two  old  people.  The 
morning  sun  streamed  through  the  casement  window, 
and  the  light  fell  full  on  Sir  Oliver's  wrinkled  old 
face  and  spare  form,  and  Stella,  through  the  semi- 
military  jauntiness  and  aristocratic  air  of  command 
produced  by  the  thin  features  and  white  moustache  and 
imperial,  saw,  as  by  means  of  X-rays,  all  the  weak- 
ness, the  foolishness,  the  pomposity,  the  vanity,  that 
lay  beneath.  And  yet  she  knew  that  he  loved  her  more 
dearly  than  any  one  in  the  world.  She  looked  at  her 
aunt,  and,  in  the  awful  flash  of  revelation  that  at 
times  sweeps  through  the  young  soul,  she  knew  her 
to  be  a  woman  of  little  intelligence,  of  narrow  judg- 
ment, of  limited  sympathies;  and  yet,  she,  too,  loved 
her  more  dearly  than  any  one  in  the  world.  Over 
them,  she,  Stella,  had  achieved  a  tranquil  victory. 
Ashamed  and  hurt  to  her  inmost  heart  by  the  stabbing 
consciousness  of  the  humiliation  she  must  have 
brought  on  these  two  poor  ones  so  dear  to  her,  she 
had  not  a  word  to  say.  Nor  could  they  speak  a  word. 
There  was  a  tense  silence.  Then  reaction  came.  All 
the  love  of  a  lifetime  flooded  Stella's  heart,  and  she 
threw  herself  by  the  side  of  Lady  Blount  and,  her 
head  in  the  old  woman's  lap,  burst  into  a  passion  of 
tears.  Sir  Oliver,  with  a  palsied  gesture  of  his  hand, 
left  the  women  to  themselves. 

Once  more  poor  Lady  Blount,  with  her  common- 
place little  platitudes,  preaching  obedience  to  the  law, 
tried  to  comfort  Stellamaris,  whose  intelligence  had 


244  STELLA    MARTS 

been  scrupulously  trained  to  the  understanding  of 
nothing  but  obedience  to  the  spirit.  And  once  more 
Stellamaris  went  away  uncomforted.  Guilt  must  be 
punished — a  proposition  which  she  found  it  hard  to 
accept;  but,  accepted  as  a  basis  of  argument,  was  it 
not  punishment  enough  to  reduce  a  human  being  to 
such  grovelling  degradation  ?  Did  not  the  declared  in- 
tention of  sending  that  wretched  girl  to  prison  imply 
pitilessness?  Thenceforward  hardness  and  suspicion 
began  to  creep  into  Stella's  judgments.  Dreams  of 
evil  began  to  haunt  her  sleep,  and  brooding  by  her 
window,  she  began  to  lose  the  consolation  of  the  sea. 

Three  week-ends  passed,  and  John  did  not  come  to 
the  Channel  House,  making  varied  excuses  for  his  de- 
fection. He  wrote  cheerily  enough,  but  Stella,  with 
poor  human  longing  for  the  magic  word  that  would 
set  her  heart  beating,  found  a  lack  of  something,  she 
scarce  knew  what,  in  his  letters.  Her  own,  once  so 
spontaneous,  so  sparkling  with  bubbles  of  fancy,  grew 
constrained  and  self-conscious.  John  seemed  to  be 
eluding  her.  One  of  the  Sundays  Herold  came  down. 
The  Blounts  told  him  of  the  episode  of  the  kitchen- 
maid  and  of  the  way  in  which  Stella  had  taken  the 
law  into  her  own  hands. 

"I  never  imagined  she  had  such  a  spirit,"  Sir  Oliver 
declared.  "Egad !  she  stood  up  against  us  all  like  a 
little  reigning  princess." 

"But  she  broke  down  afterward,  poor  darling!" 
said  Lady  Blount. 

Herold  tried  to  question  Stella  on  the  subject,  but 
met  with  no  response. 

"Let  us  talk  of  pleasant  things,"  she  pleaded. 

He  went  away  sorrowful,  knowing  the  conflict  in 
her  soul — knowing,  too,  that  the  strong  soul  has  to 
fight  its  battles  unaided. 

Meanwhile   Stella  put  on  a   smiling   face  to   the 


STELLA    MARIS  245 

\vorld, — for,  after  all,  the  world  smiled  on  her, — and 
she  was  gentle  with  Sir  Oliver  and  Lady  Blount.  She 
mingled  in  such  social  life  as  the  neighbourhood  af- 
forded— a  luncheon  party,  a  garden  party,  where 
young  men  fell  at  her  feet  in  polite  adoration,  and 
young  women  put  their  arms  round  her  waist  and 
talked  to  her  of  hats.  She  liked  them  all  well  enough, 
but  shyly  evaded  intimacy.  They  belonged  to  a  race 
of  beings  with  whom  she  was  unfamiliar,  having 
passed  their  lives  in  a  different  spiritual  sphere.  They 
frightened  her  ever  so  little;  why,  she  did  not  know, 
for  her  unused  power  of  self -analysis  was  not  suffi- 
ciently strong  to  enable  her  to  realize  the  instinctive 
shrinking  from  those,  strangers  to  her,  who  had  been 
drenched  from  childhood  in  the  mysterious  and  dread- 
ful knowledge  of  evil.  She  met  them  only  on  the 
common  ground  of  youth  and  talked  of  superficial 
things,  fearing  to  inquire  more  deeply  into  their 
thoughts  and  lives. 

"I  love  to  see  her  enjoying  herself,"  said  Lady 
Blount. 

Sir  Oliver  rubbed  his  hands,  and  agreed  for  once 
with  his  wife. 

"There  's  nothing  like  a  little  harmless  gaiety  for  a 
girl,"  said  he:  "She  has  been  shut  up  with  us  old 
fogies  too  long." 

"She's  beginning  to  realize  now,"  said  Lady  Blount, 
"the  happiness  that  lies  before  her  in  the  new  condi- 
tion of  things." 

ONE  day  when  Stella  was  returning,  unattended,  from 
a  small  shopping  excursion  in  the  village,  a  thin-lipped 
woman  in  black  crossed  the  road  just  before  the  turn 
that  led  to  the  gate  to  the  Channel  House  and  ac- 
costed her. 

"Miss  Blount?" 


246  STELLA    MARTS 

"Yes,"  said  Stella,  coming  to  a  halt. 

She  had  noticed  the  woman  for  some  little  time 
walking  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way,  and  had  been 
struck  by  a  catlike  stealthiness  in  her  gait.  Now,  face 
to  face  with  the  woman,  she  met  a  pair  of  pale-green, 
almost  expressionless  eyes  fixed  on  her  with  an  odd 
relentlessness.  The  woman's  lips  were  twisted  into 
the  convention  of  a  smile. 

"Could  I  have  the  pleasure  of  a  few  words  with 
you?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Stella.  "Will  you  come  into  the 
house  with  me?  We  are  almost  there." 

"If  you  will  excuse  me,  Miss  Blount,"  said  the 
woman,  holding  up  a  deprecating  hand, — she  was 
well-gloved  and  was  dressed  like  a  lady, — "I  would 
rather  not  go  in  with  you.  I  have  my  reasons.  I 
must  speak  with  you  entirely  in  private.  If  we  go 
round  here,  there  is  a  comfortable  seat." 

Near  the  point  at  which  they  were  standing  the 
road  up  the  cliff  diverged  into  two  forks.  The  upper 
fork  led  to  the  gate  of  the  Channel  House.  The 
lower  one  was  a  pathway  round  the  breast  of  the 
cliff.  The  woman  pointed  to  the  latter.  Stella  hesi- 
tated. 

"What  have  you  so  private  to  tell  me  that  we  can't 
talk  in  the  garden  ?" 

"It 's  something  about  John  Risca,"  said  the  woman 
with  the  thin  lips. 

Stella  put  her  hand  to  her  heart.  "John — Mr. 
Risca  ?  What  is  the  matter  ?  Has  anything  happened 
to  him?" 

"Oh,  he  's  in  perfect  health.  Don't  be  alarmed.  I 
only  don't  want  us  to  be  interrupted  by  Sir  Oliver  or 
Lady  Blount.  Do  come  with  me.  I  assure  you  it  's 
something  quite  important." 

She  moved  in  the  direction  of  the  lone  path,  and 


STELLA    MARIS  247 

Stella,  drawn  against  her  will,  followed.  They 
reached  the  seat.  Below  sank  sheer  cliff  to  the  rocks 
on  the  shore.  Above  sheer  cliff  rose  to  the  crest  on 
which  stood  the  Channel  House.  The  sea  sparkled  in 
the  sunshine.  In  the  far  distance  a  great  steamer, 
her  two  funnels  plumed  with  gray,  sped  majestically 
down  Channel.  The  woman  looked  about  her  with 
nervous  swiftness.  They  were  out  of  sight  of  human 
creature.  Then  she  turned,  and  the  cold  face  changed, 
and  Stella  shrank  from  its  sudden  malignity.  The 
woman  clutched  the  girl  by  her  arm. 

"Now,  my  lady,  do  you  know  who  I  am?" 

"No,"  said  Stella,  shrinking  back  terrified,  and 
striving  to  wrench  herself  free. 

"I  am  John  Risca's  wife." 

Stella  looked  at  her  for  an  agonized  moment,  then, 
as  white  as  paper,  collapsed  on  the  seat,  the  woman 
still  gripping  her  arm. 

"John — married — you — his  wife!"  she  stammered 
incoherently. 

Louisa  Risca  bent  down  and  scrutinized  the  white 
face. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  did  n't  know?" 

Stella  shook  her  head  in  frightened  negation.  Her 
ignorance  was  obvious,  even  to  the  criminal  woman 
now  on  the  point  of  carrying  out  the  fixed  idea  of 
years.  Gradually  the  grasp  on  her  arm  relaxed,  and 
the  woman  stood  upright. 

"You  did  n't  know  he  was  a  rotter,  did  you  ?" 

The  word  smote  Stellamaris  like  a  foul  thing.  She 
shivered.  Mrs.  Risca  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  her  for 
a  few  seconds  until,  as  it  were,  some  inspired  thought 
flashed  into  them  a  gleam  of  joy. 

"It  's  jolly  lucky  for  you  that  you  did  n't  know. 
There  's  a  nice  little  drop  from  here  down  to  the 

fcs.    I  've  t^611  nere  often  before." 


248  STELLA    MARIS 

Stella  sprang  to  her  feet  and  thrust  her  hands 
against  the  woman's  breast. 

"Let  me  pass!    Let  me  pass!"  she  cried  wildly. 

But  the  woman  barred  the  downward  path.  A  few 
steps  beyond  the  bench  it  narrowed  quickly  upward 
until  it  merged  into  the  cliff-side. 

"I  'm  not  going  to.  You  've  got  to  stay  here,"  said 
Mrs.  Risca,  seizing  Stella's  wrists  in  a  grip  in  which 
the  girl's  frail  strength  was  powerless.  "If  you  strug- 
gle and  make  a  fuss,  you  '11  have  us  both  chucked 
over.  Don't  be  silly." 

Then  Stella,  calling  to  her  aid  her  pride  and  cour- 
age, drew  herself  up  and  looked  the  evil  woman  in 
the  face. 

"Very  well.  Say  what  you  have  to  say.  I  will  lis- 
ten to  you." 

"That  's  sensible,"  said  Mrs.  Risca,  dropping  her 
wrists.  "I  don't  see  why  you  should  have  gone  on  so. 
I  only  wanted  to  speak  to  you  for  your  good  and  your 
happiness.  You  sit  down  there,  and  I  '11  sit  here,  and 
we  '11  have  a  nice,  long  talk  about  John." 

Stella  sat  on  the  extreme  upper  edge  of  the  bench, 
Mrs.  Risca  on  the  lower,  and  smiled  on  her  victim, 
who  drew  a  convulsive  breath. 

"He  has  been  making  love  to  you,  has  n't  he  ?"  she 
asked,  enjoying  the  flicker  of  pain  that  passed  over 
the  delicate  features. 

"Go  on,  if  I  must  hear,"  said  Stella. 

"And  all  the  while  he  's  been  a  married  man,  and 
I  'm  his  shamefully  neglected  and  deserted  wife." 

"How  am  I  to  know  that  you  're  his  wife?"  said 
Stella. 

"I  thought  you  'd  ask  that,  so  I  've  brought  proof." 

She  drew  two  papers  from  a  little  bag  slung  over 
her  arm,  and  handed  one  to  Stella.  It  was  a  certi- 
fied copy  of  the  marriage-certificate.  Stella  glari - 

d 


STELLA    MARIS  249 

over  it.  Ignorant  as  she  was  in  things  of  the  world, 
she  recognized  the  genuineness  of  the  official  docu- 
ment. Her  eyes  were  too  dazed,  however,  to  appre- 
ciate the  date.  She  passed  the  slip  of  blue  paper  back 
without  a  word. 

"Here  's  something  else." 

Mrs.  Risca  gave  her  a  discoloured  letter,  one  which 
she  had  kept,  Heaven  knows  why,  perhaps  in  the  vague 
hope  that  it  might  one  day  be  turned  into  an  instru- 
ment against  her  husband.  It  was  an  old,  old,  vio- 
lently passionate  love-letter.  Stella's  eyes  met  a  few 
flaming  words  in  John's  unmistakable  handwriting, 
and  with  a  shudder  she  threw  the  letter,  like  some- 
thing unclean,  away  from  her.  Mrs.  Risca  picked  it 
up  from  the  path  and  restored  it,  with  the  marriage- 
certificate,  to  her  bag. 

"He  's  a  pretty  fellow,  is  n't  he?  Fancy  his  kid- 
ding you  all  the  time  that  he  was  a  single  man.  And 
you  believed  him  and  thought  him  such  a  noble  gen- 
tleman. Oh,  he  can  come  the  noble  gentleman  when 
he  likes.  I  know  him.  I  'm  his  wife.  He  wants 
to  be  taken  for  a  rough  diamond,  he  does.  And  he  's 
never  tired  of  showing  you  what  a  diamond  he  is. 
And  for  all  his  rough  diamondness,  he  's  as  vain  as  a 
peacock.  Have  n't  you  noticed  it,  darling?" 

She  paused,  and  smiled  horribly  on  Stellamaris. 
Stellamaris,  from  whose  brown  pools  of  eyes  all  trans- 
lucency  had  gone,  looked  at  her  steadily.  The  girl's 
face  was  pinched  into  a  haggard  mask. 

"I  don't  think  you  need  tell  me  any  more.  Will 
you  please  let  me  go." 

"I  have  n't  nearly  finished,  darling,"  replied  Mrs. 
Risca,  finding  a  keener  and  purer  delight  in  this  vista 
of  exquisite  torture  that  in  the  half-confessed  inten- 
tion of  throwing  the  innocent  interloper  over  the  cliff. 
"I  want  to  be  your  friend  and  warn  you  against  our 


250  STELLA    MARIS 

dear  John.  He  's  the  kind  of  male  brute,  dear,  that 
any  silly  young  girl  falls  in  love  with.  I  know  I  did. 
He  has  a  way  of  putting  his  great  arms  around  you 
and  hugging  you,  so  that  your  senses  are  all  in  a  whirl 
and  you  think  him  some  godlike  animal." 

Stella  shuddered  through  all  her  frame  at  a  memory 
hitherto  holy,  and  clenched  her  teeth  so  that  no  cry 
could  escape.  But  the  woman  gloated  over  the  setting 
of  the  jaw  and  the  tense  silence. 

"That  's  John,  my  pretty  pet.  And  he  likes  us 
young.  He  took  me  young,  and  because  I  would  n't 
hear  of  anything  but  marriage,  he  married  me,  and 
then  threw  me  over,  and  deserted  me,  and  brought  me 
into  terrible  trouble,  and  all  that  he  or  any  one  else 
may  say  against  me  is  a  lie.  Oh!  I  know  all  about 
you.  This  is  n't  the  first  time  I  Ve  been  to  Southcliff. 
And  as  soon  as  you  could  get  up  and  go  about, — he 
knew  all  along  that  you  would  n't  lie  on  your  back 
forever — trust  him, — he  comes  and  makes  love  to  you 
and  kisses  you,  does  n't  he  ?  And  he  can't  marry  you, 
because  he  's  already  married." 

Stella  rose,  and  straightened  her  slim  figure,  and 
threw  up  her  delicate  head. 

"I  have  heard  enough.    I  order  you  to  let  me  pass." 

But  the  woman  laughed  at  the  childish  imperious- 
ness.  She  knew  herself  to  be  of  wiry  physical 
strength.  To  catch  up  that  light  body  and  send  it 
hurtling  into  space  would  be  as  easy  as  kicking  a 
Yorkshire  terrier  over  the  edge  of  a  pier.  She  had 
once  done  that. 

"You  'd  make  your  fortune  as  a  tragedy  queen. 
Why  don't  you  ask  Mr.  Herold  to  get  you  on  the 
stage?  Sit  down  again,  darling,  and  don't  be  a  little 
fool.  I  've  got  lots  more  to  tell  you." 

"I  prefer  to  stand,"  said  Stella. 

"It  does  n't  matter  to  me  whether  you  stand  or  sit, 


STELLA    MARIS  251 

my  precious  pet,"  said  Mrs.  Risca.  "I  only  want  to 
tell  you  all  about  your  dearly  beloved  John.  Oh,  he  's 
a  daisy!  They  '11  tell  you  all  sorts  of  things  about 
me — about  me  and  Unity — " 

"Unity  ?"  cried  Stella,  taken  off  her  guard. 

"Yes,  darling.  You  went  and  saw  her  the  other 
day,  did  n't  you?  Oh,  no  matter  how  I  know.  I  only 
mention  it  to  let  you  see  that  I  'm  telling  the  truth. 
They  '11  tell  you  all  sorts  of  things  about  me  and  her; 
but  they  're  all  lying.  What  do  you  think  of  our 
friend  John's  relations  with  Unity?" 

"Mr.  Risca  is  Unity's  guardian,"  said  Stella  in  a 
cold  voice. 

The  woman  laughed  again.  "You  little  fool! 
She  's  his  mistress." 

Unity  again,  with  the  baffling  mystery  surrounding 
her!  The  woman  spoke  directly,  as  if  in  complete 
revelation.  Yet  Stella  was  still  in  darkness,  and  the 
uncontrollable  feminine  groped  toward  the  light. 

"I  don't  understand  what  you  mean,"  she  said 
haughtily. 

"You  mean  to  tell  me  you  don't  understand  what 
a  man's  mistress  is?" 

It  took  her  a  few  moments  to  appreciate  the  virginal 
innocence  of  the  white  and  rigid  thing  in  woman's 
guise.  When  she  did  appreciate  it,  she  laughed  aloud. 

"You  pretty  lamb,  don't  you  know  what  a  wife  is?" 

Stella  stood,  the  cliff  above  her,  the  cliff  below,  mid- 
way between  her  sky  and  her  beloved  and  dancing 
sea,  a  hard-eyed  statue.  The  supreme  and  deliciously 
unexpected  moment  of  the  criminal  woman's  life  had 
come.  She  rose  and  held  Stellamaris  with  her  pale- 
green  eyes,  and  in  a  few  brutal  words  she  scorched 
her  soul. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A  WHISTLING  youth  who  lumbered  up  the 
path  saved  Stellamaris.  There  was  nothing 
about  him  suggestive  of  the  dragon-slaying 
and  princess-rescuing  hero  of  the  fairy-tale,  nor  did 
he  at  any  time  thereafter  dream  that  he  had  played  the 
part  of  one;  but  at  the  sight  of  him  the  she-dragon 
fled,  her  ultimate  purpose  unfulfilled.  Stella  sank 
quivering  on  the  bench.  The  knight-errant  touched 
his  cloth  cap,  and,  unaccustomed  to  the  company  of 
princesses,  lounged  in  awkward  self -consciousness  a 
few  yards  away,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and 
pretended  to  admire  the  view.  Stella,  aware  of  deliv- 
erance from  physical  danger,  drank  in  the  unutterable 
comfort  of  his  presence.  After  a  while  he  turned 
and  was  moving  off,  when  a  cry  from  her  checked 
him. 

"Please  don't  go!" 

He  advanced  a  step  or  two.  "Is  anything  the  mat- 
ter, miss?" 

She  reflected  for  a  moment.  "I  came  over  rather 
faint,"  she  said.  "I  don't  know  whether  I  can  get 
clown  to  the  house  alone."  She  was  too  proud  to  con- 
fess to  fear  of  the  evil  woman. 

The  youth  offered  help.  He  could  easily  carry  her 
home.  To  have  carried  the  mysterious  lady  of  the 
Channel  House  would  make  him  the  envy  of  the  vil- 
lage. Such  aid,  however,  she  declined. 

"Shall  I  tell  them  at  the  house,  miss?" 

She  sprang  to  unsteady  feet. 
252 


STELLA    MARIS  253 

"No,  don't  do  that!  See,  I  can  walk.  You  go  in 
front,  and  if  I  want  you,  I  '11  tell  you." 

The  youth,  somewhat  disappointed,  lounged  ahead, 
and  Stella  followed,  with  shaking  knees;  so  had  she 
progressed  during  her  early  lessons  in  the  art  of  walk- 
ing. At  the  turn  of  the  path  Stella  held  her  breath, 
dreading  to  come  upon  the  woman ;  but  no  woman 
was  in  sight.  She  walked  more  freely.  At  last  they 
reached  the  gate  of  the  Channel  House,  which  the 
youth  held  open  for  her.  She  thanked  him,  and  once 
within  the  familiar  shelter  of  the  garden  she  sped 
into  the  house  and  up  the  stairs  into  her  room,  where 
she  fell  exhausted  on  the  bed. 

The  sensation  of  physical  peril  was  gone, — of  that 
she  felt  only  the  weakness  of  reaction, — but  the 
woman  had  scorched  her  soul,  shrivelled  her  brain, 
burnt  up  the  fount  of  tears.  The  elfin  child  of  sea- 
foam  and  cloud  lay  a  flaming  horror. 

They  found  her  there,  and  saw  that  she  was  suffer- 
ing, and  tended  her  lovingly,  with  many  anxious  in- 
quiries; but  she  could  not  speak.  The  touch  of  min- 
istering hands  was  torture,  almost  defilement.  All 
humanity  seemed  to  be  unclean.  Dr.  Ransome,  sum- 
moned in  haste,  diagnosed  fever,  a  touch  of  the  sun, 
and  prescribed  sedatives.  For  aught  she  cared,  he 
might  have  diagnosed  a  fractured  limb.  Of  objective 
things  she  was  barely  aware.  Figures  moved  around 
her  like  the  nightmare  shapes  of  a  dream,  all  abhor- 
rent. She  heard  their  voices  dimly.  If  only  they 
would  go!  If  only  they  would  leave  her  alone! 

Her  High-and-Mightiness,  the  nurse,  long  since  re- 
lieved of  her  occupation,  was  telegraphed  for  from 
London.  She  came  and  bent  over  the  familiar  bed 
and  put  her  hand  on  the  hot  forehead.  But  Stella 
withdrew  from  the  once-cooling  touch,  and  closed 
her  ears  to  the  gentle  words,  for  they  seemed  to  be 


254  STELLA    MARIS 

the  touch  and  the  words  of  the  woman  with  the  pale, 
cruel  eyes  and  the  thin  lips.  All  night  long  she  could 
not  sleep,  tormented  by  the  presence  of  the  watcher 
in  the  room.  Outside  the  night  was  dark,  and  a  fine 
rain  fell.  Within,  the  lamp  of  Stellamaris  burned  in 
the  western  window  of  the  sea-chamber.  For  the  first 
time  in  her  life  she  longed  for  the  blackness ;  but  she 
could  not  speak  to  the  watching  shape,  and  she 
clenched  her  teeth.  Her  brain,  on  fire,  conceived  the 
notion  that  she  was  caught  in  one  of  the  Cities  of  the 
Plain,  and  far  above  her  floated  a  little,  dazzling, 
white  cloud,  which  mockingly  invited  her  to  mount  on 
its  back  and  soar  with  it  into  the  infinite  blue. 

After  the  dawn  had  broken,  she  fell  asleep  ex* 
hausted,  and  the  sun  was  high  when  she  awoke. 

The  nurse,  who  had  been  watching  her,  bent  down. 

"Are  you  feeling  better,  dear?" 

She  smiled  at  the  well-known  face. 

"Yes,  High-and-Mightiness,"  she  said.  They  were 
the  first  words  she  had  spoken  since  the  day  before. 

She  raised  her  head,  and  suddenly  memory  awoke, 
too,  and  the  horror  swooped  down  upon  her  like  a 
vast-winged,  evil  bird.  She  sank  again  on  the  pil- 
low and  hid  her  eyes  with  her  hand. 

"The  light  too  strong,  dear?" 

Stella  nodded.  Words  and  shapes  were  now  clearly 
defined.  The  nurse  took  her  temperature.  It  was 
virtually  normal. 

"It  must  have  been  a  touch  of  the  sun,  darling,  as 
the  doctor  said,"  remarked  the  nurse.  "But,  thank 
heavens!  you  're  better.  You  gave  us  all  such  a 
fright." 

"I  'm  sorry,"  said  Stella.    "It  was  n't  my  fault." 

IT  was  a  new  and  baffling  Stellamaris  that  entered  the 
world  again.  She  went  about  the  house  silent  and 


STELLA   MARIS  25$ 

preoccupied.  Joy  was  quenched  in  her  eyes,  and  her 
features  hardened.  The  lifelong  terms  of  endearment 
from  the  two  old  people  met  with  no  response.  Their 
morning  and  evening  kisses  she  endured  passively. 
They  had  become  to  her  as  strangers,  having  gradu- 
ally undergone  a  curious  metamorphosis  from  the 
Great  High  Excellency  and  Most  Exquisite  Auntship 
of  her  childhood  into  a  certain  Sir  Oliver  and  Lady 
Blount,  personages  of  bone  and  flesh  of  an  abomi- 
nable world,  in  whom  she  could  place  no  trust. 

One  evening  before  going  up-stairs,  she  picked  up 
a  French  novel  which  Sir  Oliver  had  left  in  the  draw- 
ing-room. 

"Don't  read  that.  Stella  dear,"  said  Lady  Blount. 

"Why?"  asked  Stella. 

"I  don't  think  it  's  suitable  for  young  girls." 

"Is  it  unclean  ?" 

"My  darling,  what  an  extraordinary  word!"  said 
Lady  Blount. 

"Is  it  unclean  ?"  Stella  persisted. 

"It  deals  with  a  certain  side  of  life  that  is  not 
wholesome  for  young  girls  to  dwell  upon." 

"You  have  n't  answered  my  question,  Auntie." 

"The  fact  that  your  uncle  and  I  have  read  it  is  an 
answer,  dear,"  said  Lady  Blount,  with  some  dignity. 

"Then  I  will  read  it,  too,"  said  Stella. 

She  took  it  up  to  her  room  and  opened  it  in  the 
middle;  but  after  a  few  pages  her  cheeks  grew  hot 
and  her  heart  cold,  and  she  threw  the  book  far  out 
of  the  window. 

It  was  a  foul,  corrupt  world,  and  all  the  inhabi- 
tants thereof  save  herself  gazed  upon  its  foulness,  and 
took  part  in  its  corruption,  not  only  without  a  shud- 
der, but  positively  with  zest.  In  the  sane  lucidity 
of  her  mind,  humanity  was  scarcely  less  intolerable 
than  in  the  nightmare  of  her  day  and  night  of  horror. 


256  STELLA    MARIS 

To  perform  an  act  of  ethical  judgment,  no  matter 
how  rough  and  elementary,  one  must  have  a  standard. 
The  fact,  too,  of  ethical  judgment  being  inherent  in 
the  conditions  of  human  existence,  implies  faultiness 
in  those  conditions.  In  an  ideal  state  of  being,  such 
as  the  evangelical  heaven,  where  there  is  no  faulti- 
ness. there  can  be  no  possible  process  of  judgment, 
?  nd  thereby  no  standard  whereby  to  measure  right  and 
vron^.  If  a  dweller  about  the  Throne  were  to  visit 
the  earth,  and  even  limit  his  visit  to  Cheltenham  or  a 
New  England  township,  the  record  of  his  impressions 
would  be,  from  our  point  of  view,  both  grotesque  and 
unjust.  He  would  have  no  standard,  save  the  infinite 
purity  of  the  Godhead  (and  an  infinite  standard  is  a 
contradiction  in  terms)  whereby  to  measure  human 
actions.  He  would  be  a  lost  and  horrified  seraph. 
His  opinions  would  not  be  a  criticism,  but  an  utterly 
valueless  denunciation  of  life. 

Stellamaris,  for  all  the  imperfections  inseparable 
from  humanity,  had  been  a  dweller  about  the  Throne 
in  her  mystical  Land  of  Illusion.  Evil,  or  the  whis- 
per of  evil,  or  the  thought  of  evil,  had,  by  the  Unwrit- 
ten Law,  never  been  allowed  to  enter  the  sea-cham- 
ber. She  issued  therefrom,  like  the  unfortunate  ser- 
aph, without  a  standard.  Her  impressions  of  life 
(from  our  worldly  point  of  view)  were  grotesque  and 
unjust.  John  was  condemned  by  her  unheard.  Like 
the  seraph,  she  was  lost  and  horrified.  But,  unlike 
the  seraph — and  here  lies  the  tragedy,  for  no  one  of 
us  would  break  his  heart  over  the  horrification  of  a 
seraph,  as  he  has  only  to  fly  back  whence  he  came  to 
be  perfectly  happy — unlike  the  seraph,  Stellamaris  was 
just  poor  human  clay,  and  she  could  not  fly  back  to 
her  Land  of  Illusion,  because  it  did  not  exist.  It  was 
her  fate  to  lead  the  common  life  of  imperfect  mortals, 
feeling  the  common  human  physical  and  spiritual 


STELLA    MARIS  257 

pangs,  with  all  the  delicate  tendrils  of  her  nature  inex- 
tricably intertwined  in  human  things,  and  to  focus 
the  myriad  sensations  afforded  by  the  bewildering 
panorama  of  life  from  the  false  and  futile  point  of 
view  of  the  seraph.  In  consequence,  she  suffered  ago- 
nies inconceivable — agonies  all  the  more  torturing  be- 
cause she  could  not  turn  for  alleviation  to  any  human 
being.  She  shrank  from  contact  with  her  kind,  wan- 
dered lonely  in  the  garden,  save  for  the  attendance  of 
the  old  dog,  and  sat  for  hours  by  the  window  of  the  sea- 
chamber  looking  with  yearning  eyes  at  sea  and  sky. 

But  no  more  could  sea  and  sky,  cloud  and  sunset, 
foam  and  mist,  take  Stellamaris  into  their  communion. 
She  had  put  on  mortality,  and  they  had  cast  her  out 
from  their  elemental  sphere.  The  sea-gulls  flashed 
their  wings  in  the  sun  and  circled  up  the  cliff  and  hov- 
ered at  her  window,  fixing  her  with  their  round,  yel- 
low eyes,  but  they  were  no  longer  the  interpreting  an- 
gels of  wind  and  wave.  The  glory  of  all  the  mysteries 
had  faded  into  the  light  of  common  day,  and  the  mem- 
ory of  them  was  only  the  confused  and  unrecallable 
tangle  of  a  dream.  And  Stellamaris  cried  passionately 
in  her  heart  for  the  days  when  she  had  not  set  foot 
in  the  world  of  men,  and  when  she  lived  somewhere 
out  there  in  the  salt  sea-spray,  and  felt  her  soul  flooded 
with  happiness  great  and  exquisite.  But  such  days 
could  never  dawn  again.  She,  too,  had  become  bone 
and  flesh  of  an  abominable  world. 

Herold  came  down  again,  and  found  her  white  and 
pinched,  with  dark  lines  beneath  her  eyes.  She 
scarcely  spoke,  replied  in  monosyllables,  only  made 
such  appearances  as  the  conventions  of  life  demanded, 
and  craftily  avoided  meeting  him  alone.  She  was  no 
longer  Stellamaris. 

"What  's  the  matter  with  her,  for  pity's  sake?" 
asked  Herold. 


258  STELLA    MARIS 

"She  has  not  yet  got  over  that  touch  of  the  sun," 
said  Sir  Oliver. 

"This  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  sun,"  Herold  de- 
clared. 

Lady  Blount  sighed.  "Perhaps  it  's  a  phase. 
Young  girls  often  pass  through  it,  though  earlier. 
But  Stella  is  different." 

Herold  saw  that  they  did  not  understand,  and, 
knowing  their  limitations,  felt  that  even  if  they  were 
enlightened,  they  would  do  more  harm  than  good. 
As  soon  as  he  returned  to  town  he  tracked  John  to 
his  office.  John  looked  up  from  proof-sheets. 

"Just  back?  I  nearly  ran  down  yesterday.  I 
should  have  done  so  if  I  had  n't  promised  my  aunt  to 
go  to  church  with  her." 

"You  've  quite  taken  to  church-going  lately,"  said 
Herold,  dryly. 

John  laughed.     "It  pleases  the  old  soul." 

"And  keeps  you  in  Kilburn,"  said  Herold. 

"It  might  be  something  worse,"  John  growled. 
Then  he  banged  the  table  with  his  fist.  "Can  you  real- 
ize what  it  means  to  keep  away  from  her?  I  think 
of  her  all  day  long,  and  I  can't  sleep  at  night  for 
thinking  of  her.  It  's  idiotic,  weak,  disgraceful, 
wicked,  any  damned  thing  you  like,  but  it 's  so."  And 
he  glowered  up  into  Herold's  face.  "I  am  eating  my- 
self out  for  her." 

"What  about  Stella?"  Herold  asked. 

"That  you  can  tell  me.  You  've  just  come  from 
her.  I  don't  know.  I  've  kept  away  scrupulously 
enough,  Heaven  knows,  and  my  letters  are  just  foot- 
ling things.  But  I  've  not  heard  from  her  for  over 
a  week.  I  waylay  the  postman  and  look  over  my  let- 
ters like  a  silly  ass  of  a  boy." 

"Have  you  told  her  about  your  marriage  ?" 

"Not  yet." 


STELLA    MARIS  259 

Herold  drew  a  deep  breath  and  turned  away  and 
pretended  to  study  a  proof  of  the  contents-bill  of  the 
next  number  of  the  Review  that  was  pinned  against 
the  wall.  He  had  come  there  to  ask  that  question. 
He  had  half  expected  and  wholly  hoped  for  an  an- 
swer in  the  affirmative.  Stella's  knowledge  might  have 
accounted  for  her  metamorphosis. 

"She  must  be  told  at  once,"  he  said,  returning  to 
the  table. 

"Why?" 

"Because  she  loves  you.  You  fool !"  he  exclaimed, 
"have  n't  I  seen  it?  Has  n't  she  all  but  told  me  so 
herself?  And  she  has  told  you,  in  some  sort  of  way, 
only  you  have  made  up  your  mind  not  to  listen.  Let 
me  put  matters  plain  before  you.  She  says  good-bye 
to  you  here  in  London,  and  goes  home  full  of  happi- 
ness and  looks  forward  to  your  coming  down  invested 
in  a  new  halo,  and  to  your  letters, — you  know  what 
sort  of  letters  a  man  writes  to  the  woman  he  loves, — • 
and  instead  of  all  that  you  never  go  near  her  and  you 
write  her  footling  notes.  What  do  you  imagine  she  's 
thinking  and  feeling?  What  do  you  think  any  ordi- 
nary decent  girl  would  think  and  feel  in  the  circum- 
stances ?" 

"Stella  is  n't  an  ordinary  girl,"  said  John,  leaning 
back  in  his  writing-chair  and  looking  at  Herold  from 
beneath  his  heavy  brows. 

"For  that  reason  she  thinks  and  feels  a  thousand 
times  more  acutely.  She  's  ill,  she  's  changed,  she  's 
the  shadow  of  herself,"  he  went  on  fiercely,  "and  it  's 
all  through  you." 

He  broke  off  and,  as  John  said  nothing,  he  put  both 
hands  on  the  table  and  leaned  over  and  looked  into 
John's  eyes. 

"I  '11  tell  you  another  thing.  The  whole  lot  of  us 
have  caused  her  endless  misery.  We  've  fed  her  all 


260  STELLA    MARIS 

her  life  on  lies.  God  knows  how  I  hated  them!  Her 
coming  out  in  the  world  has  been  a  gradual  discov- 
ery of  them.  She  has  had  shock  after  shock.  She 
has  n't  told  me, — she  's  too  proud, — but  I  know,  I  can 
read  it  in  her  face,  in  her  eyes,  in  the  tone  of  her 
voice.  And  now  she  's  going  through  the  biggest  dis- 
illusion of  all — you." 

"Do  you  mean,"  said  John,  frowning  heavily,  "that 
she  thinks  I  'm  a  blackguard  because  I  seem — you  put 
the  phrase  in  my  head  by  talking  of  the  ordinary 
young  woman — because  I  seem  to  have  thrown  her 
over?" 

"She  's  wondering  whether  you  are  a  lie,  like  most 
other  things.  And  it  's  killing  her." 

"What  am  I  to  do?" 

"Tell  her  straight.  You  ought  to  have  done  so 
from  the  first." 

"If  she  feels  it  as  deeply  as  you  say,  it  might  kill 
her  outright." 

"It  won't,"  said  Herold.  "She  's  made  of  metal 
too  fine.  But  even  if  it  did,  it  were  better  so,  for  she 
would  die  knowing  you  to  be  an  honest  man." 

John  put  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  tugged  at  his 
hair  with  his  big  fingers.  He  could  not  resent 
Herold's  fiery  speech,  for  he  felt  that  he  spoke  with 
the  tongue  of  an  archangel.  Presently  he  raised  a 
suffering  face. 

"You  're  right,  Wallie.  It  has  got  to  be  done ;  but 
I  feel  as  if  I  'm  taking  a  knife  to  her." 

He  rose  and  pushed  away  the  pile  of  proofs.  "All 
this,"  said  he,  "is  going  to  the  devil.  I  Ve  got  to 
work  through  it  over  and  over  again,  because  I  can't 
concentrate  my  mind  on  anything."  He  walked  about 
the  room  and  then  came  down  with  both  hands  on 
Herold's  shoulders. 

"For  God's  sake,  Wallie,  tell  me  that  you  under- 


STELLA    MARIS  261 

stand  how  it  has  all  come  about  \  Heaven  knows  she 
has  had  the  purest  and  the  highest  I  've  had  to  give 
her.  I  'm  a  rough,  selfish  brute,  but  for  all  those 
years  she  stood  to  me  for  something  superhuman,  a 
bit  of  God  fallen  on  the  earth,  if  you  like.  And  then 
she  came  out  in  woman's  form  and  walked  about 
among  us — I  could  n't  help  it.  Say  that  you  under- 
stand." 

"I  can  quite  understand  you  falling  in  love  with 
her,"  said  Herold,  quietly. 

"And  you  '11  help  to  set  me  right  with  her — as  far 
as  this  damnable  matter  can  be  set  right?" 

"You  two  are  dearer  to  me  than  anything  in  life," 
said  Herold.  "There  is  nothing  too  difficult  for  me 
to  undertake  for  you;  but  whether  I  succeed  is  an- 
other question." 

"I  wish  I  were  like  you,"  said  John.  He  shook  him 
with  rough  tenderness  and  turned  away.  "God!  It 
is  n't  the  first  time  I've  wished  it." 

"In  what  way  like  me?" 

"You  've  kept  your  old,  high  ideals.  She  's  still  to 
you  Stellamaris — the  bit  of  God.  You  have  n't 
wanted  to  drag  her  down  to — to  flesh  and  blood — as 
I  have." 

Herold  grew  white  to  the  lips  and  took  up  his  hat 
and  stick.     "Never  mind  about  me,"  he  said,  steady- 
ing his  voice.    "I  don't  count.    She  's  all  that  matter? 
What  are  you  going  to  do?    See  her  or  writ-- ?' 

"I  '11  write,"  said  John. 

Herold  went  out,  carrying  wi4b  '- 
words  he  had  ^  •  '.  . 
words  of  w1  ' 


262  STELLA    MARIS 

shall  be  on  fire."  And  he  remembered  how  he  had 
spoken  of  the  unforgivable  sin — high  treason  against 
friendship.  But  in  one  respect  his  words  had  not 
come  true.  He  had  said  that  in  his  evil  hour  he  would 
have  a  great,  strong  friend  to  stand  by  his  side.  He 
was  walking  over  the  ploughshares  alone.  And  that 
evening,  in  their  wait  on  the  stairs  during  the  first 
act,  in  retort  to  some  jesting  reply,  Leonora  Gurney 
said: 

"I  believe  you  're  the  chilliest-natured  and  most 
heartless  thing  that  ever  walked  the  earth,  and  how 
you  can  play  that  love-scene  in  the  third  act  will  al- 
ways be  a  mystery  to  me." 

"Perhaps  that 's  the  very  reason  I  can  play  it,"  said 
Herold. 

His  heart  wrung  in  a  vice,  John  wrote  the  letter 
to  Stellamaris.  He  was  "killing  the  thing  he  loved." 
Good  men,  and  even  some  bad  ones,  who  have  done 
it,  do  not  like  to  dwell  upon  the  memory.  He  posted 
the  letter  on  his  way  home  from  the  office.  It  dropped 
into  the  letter-box  with  the  dull  thud  of  the  first  clod 
of  earth  thrown  upon  a  coffin.  At  dinner  Miss  Lin- 
don  talked  in  her  usual  discursive  way  on  the  warm 
weather  and  sun-spots  and  the  curious  phenomenon 
observable  on  the  countenance  of  a  pious  curate 
friend  of  her  youth,  who  had  spots,  not  sun-spots,  but 
birth-marks,  on  brow,  chin,  and  cheeks,  making  a  per- 
>orn  of  the  cross.  But  the  dear  fellow  unfor- 
with  a  red  tip  to  his  nose, 
r  ie  uncle — "your  great-uncle 
the  five  of  dia- 


STELLA    MARIS  263 

equally  irrelevant.  And  Unity  dumbly  watched  him. 
She  had  been  at  great  pains  to  prepare  a  savoury  dish 
that  he  loved.  He,  ordinarily  of  Gargantuan  appe- 
tite, as  befitted  the  great- framed  man  that  he  was, 
scarcely  touched  it.  Unity  was  distressed. 

"Is  n't  it  all  right,  Guardian?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  dear;  delicious." 

Yet  he  did  not  eat,  and  Unity  knew  that  his  heart 
was  not  in  his  food.  It  was  elsewhere.  He  was  un- 
happy. He  had  been  unhappy  for  some  time.  Two 
lines  had  come  between  the  corners  of  his  lips  and  his 
chin,  and  there  was  a  queer,  pained  look  in  his  eyes. 
A  far  lesser-hearted  and  weaker-brained  thing  in  pet- 
ticoats than  Unity  would  have  known  that  John  loved 
the  radiant  princess  of  Wonderland.  Unity  dreamed 
of  it — the  love  between  her  king  and  her  princess. 
Of  herself  she  scarcely  thought.  Her  humility — not 
without  its  pride  and  beauty — placed  her  far  beneath 
them  both.  Her  king  was  suffering.  The  feminine 
in  her  put  aside  such  reasons  as  would  have  occurred 
to  the  unintuitive  male — business  cares,  disappointed 
ambition,  internal  pain,  or  discomfort.  He  was  suf- 
fering; he  went  about  with  a  mountain  of  care  on  his 
brow  that  made  her  heart  ache ;  he  answered  remarks 
at  random ;  he  had  no  appetite  for  the  dish  he  adored 
— lamb-chops  en  casserole,  which  she  had  learned 
to  make  from  a  recipe  in  "The  Daily  Mirror."  He 
was  pining  away  for  love  of  Stellamaris. 

So  deeply  engaged  was  Unity  with  these  thoughts 
that  it  was  not  until  she  had  switched  on  the  light  in 
her  bedroom  and  was  preparing  to  undress  that  she 
remembered,  with  a  pang  of  dismay,  that  the  Olym- 
pian tobacco  box  (old  pewter,  a  present  years  ago 
from  Herold),  one  of  her  own  peculiar  and  precious 
cares,  was  empty.  She  went  down-stairs  to  the  store- 
cupboard,  where  she  hoarded  the  tobacco  and,  with 


264  STELLA    MARIS 

it  in  her  hand,  she  proceeded  to  the  study,  and  opened 
the  door  softly. 

Her  guardian,  her  king  of  men,  her  beginning  and 
end  of  existence,  sat  in  his  writing-chair,  his  head 
bowed  on  his  arms,  folded  on  the  table.  A  blank 
sheet  of  paper  lay  on  the  blotter.  She  saw  that  his 
great  shoulders  shook.  As  he  did  not  hear  her  enter, 
she  stole  on  tiptoe  to  the  table,  and  laid  the  packet  of 
tobacco  on  the  corner.  She  tiptoed  back  to  the  door, 
and  turned  and  stayed  there  for  a  moment,  watching 
him,  soul-racked  with  futile  longing  to  bring  him 
comfort. 

She  caught  muffled  words.  She  knew  in  her  heart 
that  nothing  she  could  do  would  be  of  any  avail.  In 
an  instinctive  gesture  she  stretched  out  her  hands  pit- 
eously  toward  the  bowed  head  and  went  out  of  the 
room,  noiselessly  closing  the  door  behind  her. 

That  night,  she  cried  as  she  had  never  cried  be- 
fore, not  even  when  hot  irons  had  seared  her  flesh. 

An  hour  or  so  afterwards  John  Risca  put  out  the 
lights  in  his  study  and  went  up-stairs  to  bed.  He 
could  not  sleep,  and  he  thought,  after  the  poor,  but 
human,  manner  of  men,  not  so  much  of  the  killing  of 
the  thing  he  loved,  as  of  the  unimaginable,  intolerable 
blank  in  his  own  life  when  the  thing  he  loved  should 
be  killed. 

In  the  morning  he  said  to  himself,  "She  has  got 
my  letter,"  and  fell  into  a  frenzy  of  speculation. 

That  day  he  watched  the  post  for  an  answer,  and 
the  next  day  and  the  next  and  the  next;  but  no  an- 
swer came.  For  the  irony  of  fate  had  so  ordained 
that,  as  with  the  other  unanswered  letters,  Stellama- 
ris,  her  finger-tips  quivering  with  shame  and  horror  at 
contact  with  the  envelope,  had  destroyed  it  unopened. 


CHAPTER  XX 

UNITY  watched  the  beloved  being  as  only  a 
woman  can  watch  man  or  a  sailor  can  watch 
sea  and  sky.  To  each,  signs  and  portents 
are  vital  matters.  She  noted  every  shadow  on  his 
face,  every  deepening  line,  every  trick  of  his  eyes, 
every  mouthful  that  he  ate,  and  the  very  working  of 
his  throat  as  he  swallowed.  She  noted  the  handwrit- 
ing on  envelopes  and  unfinished  manuscript,  the  ashes 
knocked  out  of  pipes,  the  amount  of  evening  whisky 
consumed,  and  the  morning  muddle  of  pillow  and  bed- 
clothes. She  was  alive  to  his  every  footstep  in  the 
house.  She  knew,  without  entering  the  study, 
whether  he  was  working,  or  sitting  morose  in  his  old 
leather  arm-chair,  or  pacing  the  room.  She  knew 
whether  he  slept  or  was  restless  of  nights. 

One  day  she  made  a  discovery,  and  in  consequence 
took  the  first  opportunity  of  private  use  of  the  tele- 
phone, and  rang,  up  Herold.  She  was  anxious  about 
her  guardian.  Could  she  see  Herold  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble without  Aunt  Gladys  or  guardian  knowing?  They 
arranged  a  meeting  just  inside  the  park,  by  the  Marble 
Arch. 

Herold,  who  knew  Unity  to  be  a  young  woman  of 
practical  common  sense,  had  readily  assented  to  her 
proposal,  and  in  considerable  perturbation  of  mind 
started  from  his  home  in  Kensington.  He  arrived 
punctually  at  the  Marble  Arch  end  of  the  park,  but 
found  her  already  there,  a  patient,  undistinguished 
little  figure  in  her  tartan  blouse  and  nondescript  hat 

265 


266  STELLA    MARTS 

adorned  with  impossible  roses.  The  latter  article  of 
attire  was  her  best  hat.  She  had  bought  it  already 
trimmed  for  seven-and-six,  which  had  seemed  a  reck- 
less expenditure  of  her  guardian's  money. 

She  was  sitting  on  a  bench  of  the  broad  carriage- 
drive,  watching  with  a  London  child's  interest,  despite 
her  preoccupation,  the  gorgeous  equipages,  carriages, 
and  automobiles  transporting  the  loveliest  ladies  (save 
one)  in  the  world,  ravishingly  raimented,  from  one 
strange  haunt  of  joyousness  to  another.  For  it  was 
half -past  three  of  the  clock  on  a  beautiful  day  in  the 
height  of  the  London  season,  and,  as  everybody 
knows,  Hyde  Park  is  a  royal  park,  and  along  that 
stretch  of  road  from  Hyde  Park  Corner  to  the  marble 
arch  no  cart  or  omnibus  or  hackney  cab  or  pretentious 
taxi  is  allowed  under  penalty  of  instant  annihilation. 
Only  the  splendour  (in  eyes  such  as  Unity's)  of  pluto- 
cratically  owned  vehicles  meets  the  enraptured  vision. 
Pedestrian  fashion,  however,  does  not  haunt  that  end 
of  the  road,  which  is  mostly  given  up  to  nurse-maids 
and  drab  members  of  the  proletariat;  but  the  flower- 
beds make  compensation  by  blazing  with  colour,  and 
the  plane-trees  wave  their  greenery  over  everything. 

Herold  raised  his  hat,  shook  hands,  and  sat  down 
by  Unity's  side. 

"It  was  good  of  you  to  come,  Mr.  Herold.  I 
scarcely  dared  ask  you,  but — " 

"What  's  gone  wrong?"  he  asked,  with  a  smile. 

She  began  her  tale:  how  her  guardian  neither  ate 
nor  slept,  how  he  tore  up  page  after  page  of  copy, — 
he  who  used  to  write  straight  ahead;  she  found  the 
pieces  in  the  waste  paper  basket, — how  he  was  grow- 
ing gloomy  and  haggard  and  ill.  Her  woman's  mind 
laid  pathetic  stress  on  these  outward  and  visible  signs. 

"You  must  have  noticed  the  difference  in  him,  Mr. 
Herold,"  she  said  tearfully. 


STELLA    MARIS  267 

He  nodded.  John  took  trouble  badly,  which  was 
one  of  the  reasons  that  endeared  Herold  to  him.  In 
some  aspects  he  was  nothing  but  a  Pantagruelian  in- 
fant ;  but  it  was  no  use  discoursing  on  this  to  Unity. 

"He  feels  things  very  deeply,"  he  said  instead. 

"Would  n't  you,  if  you  loved  Miss  Stella,  and  never 
saw  or  heard  from  her?" 

"I  should,"  said  he,  with  a  smile. 

"And  she  loves  him.  I  know  it.  And  she  feels 
deeply,  too." 

He  acquiesced.    "She,  too,  is  very  unhappy." 

"And  they  're  separated  forever  because  they  can't 
marry  ?" 

"That  is  so,  Unity,"  said  he. 

"Why  can't  he  get  rid  of  her — the  other  woman, 
I  mean?"  cried  Unity,  fiercely. 

"She  has  given  him  no  grounds  for  divorce." 

Unity  twisted  her  handkerchief  in  her  hands.  "I 
suppose  there  comes  a  time,"  she  said,  "when  people 
can't  stand  any  more  suffering,  and  they  break  down 
or  do  something  dreadful." 

"Your  guardian  is  too  strong  for  that,"  replied 
Herold. 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  know."  The  mothering  in- 
stinct spoke.  "That  's  what  I  've  come  to  ask  you 
about.  I  'm  frightened." 

She  turned  on  him  a  miserable,  scared  face  and  told 
him  of  her  discovery.  She  had  gone  into  her  guard- 
ian's study  that  morning  in  order  to  tidy  up,  and  had 
seen  that  he  had  left  the  key  in  the  lock  of  his  private 
drawer,  with  the  rest  of  the  bunch  hanging  from  it. 
She  had  opened  the  drawer  and  found,  lying  on  top 
of  some  documents  one  of  which  was  a  sealed  en- 
velope endorsed  "My  Will,"  a  loaded  revolver  and  a 
case  of  cartridges.  She  knew  that  the  revolver  was 
loaded  because  she  had  examined  it.  Then,  hearing 


268  STELLA    MARIS 

his  step,  she  had  shut  the  drawer,  and  gone  on  with 
her  dusting.  He  had  entered,  locked  the  drawer,  put 
the  bunch  in  his  pocket,  and  gone  out  without  a 
word. 

Herold  looked  grave.  More  in  order  to  gain  time 
for  reflection  than  to  administer  a  moral  lesson,  he 
said :  t 

"You  should  n't  have  searched  his  private  drawer, 
Unity." 

"I  'd  search  anything,  if  only  I  could  find  a  way  of 
helping  him,"  she  replied  impetuously.  "When  I  see 
him  suffer  and  can't  do  anything  for  him,  I  feel  crazy. 
I  can't  sleep  sometimes,  and  stand  outside  his  door  in 
the  middle  of  the  night.  It  does  n't  matter  whether 
I  ought  n't  to  have  done  it  or  not,"  she  cried  with  an 
awkward  and  impatient  gesture;  "I  did  it,  and  I 
found  what  I  found.  What  I  want  to  know  is,  Why 
should  my  guardian  make  his  will  and  keep  a  loaded 
revolver  in  his  room  unless  he  thought  that — that  he 
was  going  to  die?" 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Herold,  alarmed  by  her 
news  and  touched  by  her  devotion,  took  her  cheap- 
gloved  hand  and  pressed  it.  Occupants  of  the  dazzling 
equipages  stared  at  the  elegantly  attired  gentleman 
and  the  dowdy  little  girl  love-making  on  the  public 
seat.  He  tried  to  reassure  her. 

"Every  man  with  folks  depending  on  him  makes  a 
will,  so  we  can  dismiss  that;  and  I  know  heaps  of  men 
who  keep  revolvers." 

"But  why  should  the  will  be  dated  two  days  ago?" 
asked  Unity. 

"Was  it?" 

"The  date  was  written  on  the  envelope,  with  'My 
Will'  and  his  name." 

"In  all  probability,"  said  Herold,  "the  cloud  that 
has  come  between  him  and  Stellamaris  has  made  him 


-***.«. 

1   _r±.. 


SHE   TURNED   ON   HIM  A   MISERABLE,    SCARED    FACE,    AND   TOLD   HIM   OF    HER  DISCOVERY 


STELLA   MARIS  269 

decide  to  make  a  fresh  will.  I  know  he  made  one 
some  years  ago." 

"But  why  the  revolver?" 

"He  spoke  to  me,  also  some  years  ago,  about  get- 
ting one.  There  had  been  one  or  two  burglaries  and 
an  ugly  murder — don't  you  remember? — in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. He  must  have  got  it  then.*' 

"It  looks  too  new,"  said  Unity. 

"Those  things  keep  new  for  ever  so  long,  if  they  're 
not  used,"  he  argued. 

"Then  you  think  there  's  no  danger?"  she  asked, 
with  both  her  hands  on  his  wrist. 

"Not  at  present,"  he  said,  with  a  smile.  "Look 
after  him  as  closely  as  you  can  and  keep  up  your  brave 
little  heart,  or  we  '11  have  you  too  going  about  with 
hollow  eyes  and  gaunt  cheeks,  and  we  can't  afford  it." 

"Me?"  She  sniffed  derisively.  "I  'm  as  tough  as 
a  horse.  And  what  do  I  matter?" 

"Your  guardian  would  have  a  pretty  poor  time  of 
it  if  he  had  only  Aunt  Gladys  to  look  after  him." 

The  shadow  of  a  grin  flickered  over  Unity's  face. 

"I  suppose  he  would,"  she  said. 

She  went  away  half-comforted.  She  had  shared 
her  terrifying  secret  with  Herold,  which  was  a  good 
and  consoling  thing;  but  she  had  not  been  quite  con- 
vinced by  his  easy  arguments.  And  Herold  went 
away  entirely  unconvinced.  He  knew  John  as  no  one, 
not  even  Unity,  who  had  made  him  the  passionate 
study  of  her  life,  could  know  him.  It  was  his  peculi- 
arity to  pursue  his  right-headed  ideas  with  far  less 
obstinacy  than  his  wrong-headed  ones.  In  the  former 
case  he  had  a  child's  (and  sometimes  a  naughty 
child's)  hesitations,  and  was  amenable  to  argument; 
but  when  bent  on  a  course  of  folly,  he  charged  blindly, 
and  could  be  stopped  only  with  great  difficulty.  Her- 
old walked  through  the  park  in  anxious  thought,  and, 


270  STELLA   MARIS 

at  a  loose  end  for  an  hour  or  two,  took  a  taxi  to  the 
club  to  which  both  he  and  John  belonged.  Avoiding 
the  lounge  and  its  cheery  talk,  he  mounted  to  the 
deserted  morning-room,  and,  having  ordered  tea, 
settled  down  to  an  evening  newspaper,  the  pages  of 
which  he  stared  at,  but  did  not  read. 

Presently,  to  his  surprise,  John,  who  had  avoided 
the  club  for  some  little  time,  burly  and  gloomy,  en- 
tered the  room. 

"I  thought  I  'd  come  in  for  a  quiet  talk  with  some- 
body ;  but  there  's  that  ass  Simmons  down-stairs.  He 
makes  me  sick." 

Simmons  was  the  wit  and  brilliant  raconteur  of  the 
club. 

"You  can  have  a  quiet  talk  with  me,  if  I  'm  good 
enough,"  said  Herold.  "I  've  been  wanting  to  see  you. 
What  line  are  you  going  to  take  in  the  'Review'  on 
this  latest  freak  of  the  censor?" 

The  prohibition  of  a  famous  Continental  play  had 
aroused  the  usual  storm  in  the  theatrical  and  journal- 
istic world.  Every  one  who  wrote  turned  his  back 
on  the  harmless  and  ridiculously  situated  man,  and 
in  cuttlefish  fashion  squirted  ink  at  him.  But  John 
Risca  took  no  interest  in  the  question,  and  stated  the 
fact  with  unnecessary  violence.  He,  on  his  side,  had 
wanted  to  see  Herold.  He  had  taken  his  advice  and 
written  to  Stella  and  had  received  no  reply.  More 
than  a  week  had  passed.  The  whole  thing  was  driv- 
ing him  mad. 

Herold  made  a  proposal  which  had  been  vaguely  in 
his  head  for  some  days,  and  to  which  Unity's  com- 
munication had  given  defmiteness. 

"Come  away  with  me  on  a  sea-voyage — a  couple  of 
months — South  Africa,  anywhere  you  like.  I  'm  tired 
out.  As  for  the  piece,  it  's  near  the  end  of  the  run, 
and  it  '11  hurt  no  one  if  I  go  out  and  let  Brooke  play 


STELLA    MARIS  271 

my  part.  I  have  n't  had  a  holiday  for  two  years.  It 
would  be  an  act  of  charity.  You  can  get  away;  no 
man  is  indispensable,  and  you  can  afford  it.  If  you 
stay  here,  you  '11  lose  your  balance  and  very  likely 
commit  some  act  of  idiotic  folly.  By  our  return,  time 
will  have  done  its  soothing  work,  and  the  relations  be- 
tween Stella  and  yourself  will  have  been  readjusted." 

Such  was  the  substance  of  that  which  for  a  solid 
hour  he  strove  to  nail  into  John's  armour-clad  mind. 
His  efforts  were  vain.  In  the  first  place,  John  was 
not  going  to  accept  such  a  quixotic  sacrifice  of  pro- 
fessional interests  from  any  man,  even  from  Herold; 
secondly,  he  could  n't  get  away  from  London,  and 
did  n't  want  to;  thirdly,  if  he  were  being  driven  mad 
within  a  journey  of  an  hour  or  so  from  Stellamaris, 
he  would  become  a  raving  maniac  if  he  were  separated 
from  her  by  half  the  length  of  the  earth;  fourthly,  he 
was  in  perfect  health  and  perfect  command  of  his  fac- 
ulties, and  the  only  meaning  he  could  attach  to  Her- 
old's  insinuation  regarding  idiotic  folly  was  that  he 
might  forget  himself  so  far  as  to  go  down  to  South- 
cliff  and  make  a  scene  with  Stellamaris,  thereby  acting 
with  insensate  cruelty  toward  her :  all  of  which  was 
ludicrous,  and  it  was  insulting  on  Herold's  part  to 
make  such  a  suggestion. 

Herold  called  him  a  fool  and  said  that  he  did  not 
mean  that  at  all. 

"Then  what  did  you  mean?" 

"When  a  man  loses  control  over  himself  and  lets 
himself  be  obsessed  by  a  fixed  idea,  his  brain  's  not 
right,  and  he  's  capable  of  anything.  The  only  chance 
for  him  is  change  of  scene  and  interests,  and  that  's 
why  I  've  been  imploring  you  to  come  away  with  me." 

"And  that  's  why  I  'm  going  to  do  nothing  of  the 
kind,"  said  John,  rising  and  looking  down  upon  his 
friend  with  blood-shot  eyes.  "I  'm  pretty  miserable, 


272  STELLA    MARTS 

I  own.  Lots  of  men  are,  and  they  have  to  keep  their 
mouths  shut,  because  they  have  n't  any  one  before 
whom  they  're  not  ashamed  to  let  off  steam.  I  've  got 
you.  I  've  had  you  all  my  man's  life.  I  've  told  you 
everything.  Somehow  I  've  not  been  ashamed  to  tell 
you  things  I  would  n't  dream  of  breathing  to  any 
other  man  living.  There  's  a  kind  of  woman,  I  be- 
lieve, whom  I  might  have  talked  to  as  I  do  to  you. 
I  've  not  met  her,  so  I  've  got  into  the  habit  of  com- 
ing to  you  with  whatever  worries  me;  and  you  've 
never  failed  me.  And  I  've  come  to  you  now.  But 
there  are  limits  beyond  which  even  a  friend  like  you 
has  no  right  to  go.  You  've  no  right  to  tell  me  I  'm 
going  out  of  my  mind  and  to  warn  me  against  behav- 
ing like  the  inmate  of  a  lunatic  asylum.  You  've  no 
right.  I  resent  it.  I  'm  not  going  to  stand  it." 

Herold's  reply  was  checked  by  the  creaking  of  the 
door  and  the  entrance  of  the  bent  figure  of  an  old 
member,  a  county  court  judge  who,  on  his  way  to  a 
writing-table  by  the  window,  nodded  courteously  to 
the  two  younger  men  and  remarked  that  it  was  a  fine 
day. 

"I  suppose  most  people  would  call  it  so,"  said  John. 

"Don't  you?" 

"I  hate  it,"  cried  John.  "I  wish  it  would  rain.  I 
wish  it  would  rain  like  the  devil.  I  would  give  my 
ears  for  a  pea-soup  fog.  Sunshine  is  too  blightingly 
ironical  in  this  country." 

The  old  judge  lifted  his  eyebrows.  "The  metaphys- 
ics of  meteorology  are  beyond  me,"  he  said,  with  a 
smile  and  a  bow,  and  sat  down  to  write. 

John  lingered  for  a  second  or  two  by  the  side  of  his 
friend,  tracing  the  pattern  of  the  Turkey  carpet  with 
the  toe  of  his  boot;  then  he  swung  round  abruptly. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  he.  "I  've  got  to  look  at  Bax- 
ter's imbecile  article  in  'The  Contemporary.' * 


STELLA   MARIS  273 

He  went  to  the  table  where  the  current  magazines 
and  reviews  were  tidily  displayed,  and  Herold,  sit- 
ting in  an  arm-chair  some  distance  away,  with  his 
back  to  the  table,  pondered  over  the  discussion  that 
had  just  taken  place.  But  for  the  rumble  and  clat- 
ter of  London  that  came  through  the  open  windows, 
the  ceaseless  choric  ode  to  all  the  drama  of  the  vast 
city,  there  was  silence  in  the  spacious  room,  broken 
only  by  the  scratching  of  the  old  judge's  quill  pen. 
Herold  resumed  his  aimless  skimming  of  the  evening 
newspaper.  What  further  appeal  could  he  make  to 
John  in  his  contradictory  and  violent  mood? 

At  last  the  old  judge,  having  scribbled  his  note,  got 
up  and  left  the  room.  Herold  turned  and  found  him- 
self alone.  John  had  gone  without  drum  or  trumpet. 
In  the  lounge  down-stairs  there  was  no  John,  and  in 
the  hall  the  porter  told  him  that  Mr.  Risca  had  left 
the  club. 

He  went  home  to  his  actor's  six  o'clock  dinner,  and 
found  a  letter  from  Lady  Blount  imploring  him  to 
come  to  Southcliff  at  once.  Stella  was  getting  worse 
day  by  day.  Sir  Oliver  and  she  were  in  despair,  Dr. 
Ransome  was  at  his  wits'  ends.  In  a  woman's  fran- 
tic helplessness  she  adjured  him  to  come  and  work  a 
miracle.  Now,  it  so  happened  that  on  the  early  aft- 
ernoon of  the  next  day  he  had  a  very  important  ap- 
pointment. It  was  a  question  of  his  going  into  nomi- 
nal management  in  the  autumn.  Suitable  pieces,  a 
theatre,  and  financial  backers,  obscure  but  vital  ele- 
ments in  theatrical  business,  had  been  found,  and  it 
was  with  these  last  that  the  morrow's  all-important 
interview  was  to  take  place.  He  turned  up  the  rail- 
way time-table,  and  saw  that  by  leaving  London  by 
the  first  train  in  the  morning,  and  probably  skipping 
lunch,  he  could  spend  a  couple  of  hours  in  Southcliff 
and  get  back  in  time  for  his  engagement.  He  tele- 


274  STELLA    MARIS 

graphed  to  Lady  Blount,  dined,  and  went  to  the  the- 
atre. For  perhaps  the  first  time  in  his  pleasant  life 
he  was  overwhelmed  that  evening  by  the  sense  of  the 
futility  of  his  work,  which  every  artist,  actor,  painter, 
and  poet  is  doomed  to  feel  at  times.  The  painted 
faces  of  his  colleagues,  the  vain  canvas  of  the  sets, 
the  stereotyped  words,  gestures,  inflections,  repeated 
without  variation  for  more  than  the  two  hundredth 
time,  the  whole  elaborate  make-believe  of  life  that  at 
once  is,  and  is  not,  the  theatre, — all  this  oppressed 
him,  filled  him  with  shame  and  disgust.  It  had  no 
meaning.  It  was  an  idle  show.  He  had  given  to 
inanity  a  life  that  might  have  been  devoted  to  the 
pursuit  of  noble  ideals. 

Folks  are  apt  to  imagine  that,  when  the  pains  of  the 
actual  world  get  round  about  an  artist's  soul,  the  su- 
preme moment  has  arrived  for  him  to  deliver  himself 
in  immortal  utterances.  This  is  untrue.  He  does  n't 
so  deliver  himself.  On  the  contrary,  he  cuts  up  his 
canvas,  smashes  his  piano,  and  kicks  his  manuscript 
about  the  room.  What  interpretation  of  life,  however 
celestially  inspired,  can  have  the  all-annihilating 
poignancy  of  life  itself?  Your  poet  may  write  an  im- 
mortal lyric  by  the  death-bed  of  his  mistress;  but  it  is 
a  proof  that  he  did  not  care  a  brass  farthing  for  the 
lady:  he  is  expressing  the  grief  that  he  might  have 
felt  if  he  had  loved  her.  For  the  suffering  artist,  at 
grips  with  the  great  realities,  art  is  only  a  trumpery 
matter.  It  is  only  when  he  is  getting,  or  has  got, 
better,  that  he  composes  his  masterpieces  working 

.    .    .    the  world  to  sympathy 
With  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not. 

So  Herold,  instinctively  obeying  the  common  law, 
as  all  poor  humans  in  one  way  or  another  have  to  do, 
grew  heartsick  at  the  vanity  of  his  calling,  and,  after 


STELLA   MARIS  275 

a  mechanically  perfect  performance,  wondered  how  an 
honest  man  could  live  such  a  life  of  shameless  fraud. 

After  a  night  and  dawn  of  rain  the  sun  shone  from 
a  blue  sky  when  he  reached  the  Channel  House  next 
morning-.  Sir  Oliver  and  Lady  Blount  received  him  in 
the  dining-room.  They  looked  very  old  and  care- 
worn. Like  Constable,  they  had  nothing  to  live 
for  save  Stellamaris;  and  now  Stellamaris,  stricken 
by  an  obscure  but  mortal  malady,  was  dying  before 
their  eyes.  So,  antiphonally,  and  at  first  with 
singularly  little  bickering,  they  told  Herold  their 
story  of  despair.  It  added  little  to  his  knowledge. 
The  symptoms  of  which  he  was  already  aware  had  in- 
tensified; that  was  all.  But  the  two  guardians  had 
altered  their  opinion  as  to  the  cause.  Sir  Oliver  rue- 
fully discarded  the  theory  of  the  touch  of  the  sun, 
and  his  wife  now  realized  that  the  state  of  Stella- 
maris was  not  merely  the  morbid  phase  through  which 
most  maidens  are  supposed  to  pass.  Dr.  Ransome, 
with  intuition  none  too  miraculous,  had  emitted  the 
theory  that  she  had  something  on  her  mind.  "But 
what  could  the  poor  darling  innocent  child  have  on 
her  mind?"  cried  Sir  Oliver. 

"What,  indeed,"  echoed  Lady  Blount,  "unless  her 
mind  is  affected?" 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Julia,"  said  Sir  Oliver. 

"I  'm  not  such  a  fool  as  you  think,  Oliver.  Stella 
has  n't  lived  a  normal  life,  and  who  knows  but  what 
the  change  of  the  last  year  may  have  done  harm? 
Dr.  Ransome  himself  said  that  if  we  could  cure  the 
mind,  we  could  cure  the  body,  and  advised  us  to  take 
her  abroad  so  that  she  could  be  distracted  by  fresh 
scenes." 

"He  hinted  nothing  about  insanity.  You  ought  to 
be  ashamed  of  yourself,"  said  Sir  Oliver,  with  queru- 
lous asperity. 


276  STELLA    MARIS 

Then  Herold  saw  that  the  truth  must  be  told. 

"Has  it  never  struck  you  that  John  may  be  the 
cause  of  it  all?" 

Sir  Oliver  jerked  himself  round  in  his  chair.  "John? 
What  do  you  mean?" 

"Why,  I  wrote  to  John  at  the  same  time  that  I 
did  to  you,"  said  Lady  Blount,  "begging  him  to  come 
down  in  almost  the  same  words;  for  you  know,  dear 
Walter,  I  'm  not  a  clever  woman  and  can't  say  the 
same  thing  in  two  different  ways.  She  does  n't  know 
I  did  so,  for  she  's  so  strange  and  won't  talk  to  any 
one  alone,  if  she  can  help  it.  I  thought  John  and 
you  might  succeed  in  getting  something  out  of  her. 
But  John  has  n't  replied  at  all.  I  can't  understand  it." 

"Does  n't  that  bear  out  what  I  say?"  asked  Herold. 

"But  John — what  do  you  mean?"  Sir  Oliver  re- 
peated. 

"Yes,  dear,  what  do  you  mean?  Of  course  John 
has  behaved  in  an  extraordinary  way  lately.  He 
has  n't  been  to  see  us  for  ever  so  long.  But  the  dear 
fellow  has  explained.  He  is  overwhelmed  with  work, 
especially  at  week-ends.  He  writes  me  charming  let- 
ters, and  he  corresponds  regularly  with  Stella.  I  don't 
see—" 

"Oh,  for  heaven's  sake,  Julia,  let  Walter  put  in  a 
word !"  cried  Sir  Oliver,  rising  and  throwing  his  ciga- 
rette-end into  the  bank  of  flowering-plants  that  filled 
the  summer  fireplace,  a  domestic  outrage  that  always 
irritated  Lady  Blount,  and  even  now  caused  her  to 
wince  and  dart  an  angry  glance  at  the  perpetrator. 
"Go  on.  Tell  us  what  you  mean." 

"Has  it  never  occurred  to  you  that  Stella  and  John 
may  have  fallen  in  love  with  each  other — with  the 
ghastly  barrier  of  the  wife  between  them?" 

The  two  old  people  looked  at  him  wide-eyed  and 
drooping-mouthed.  That  Stellamaris,  their  fragile, 


STELLA    MARTS  277 

impalpable  child  of  mystery,  more  precious  to  them 
than  a  child  of  their  own  bodies,  over  whom  they 
might  have  quarrelled — that  Stellamaris  should  be  a 
grown  woman,  capable  of  a  grown  woman's  passions, 
was  a  proposition  bewilderingly  preposterous.  Sir 
Oliver  found  speech  first. 

"Stella  in  love  with  John?  It  's  absurd;  it  's  ludi- 
crous. Why,  bless  my  soul!  you  might  just  as  well 
say  she  was  in  love  with  me!  It  's  nonsense — ridicu- 
lous nonsense." 

He  walked  up  and  down  beside  the  dining-room 
table,  with  arms  outstretched,  shaking  his  thin  hands 
in  protest. 

Lady  Blount,  her  elbow  resting  on  the  table,  looked 
at  Walter. 

"The  barrier  of  the  wife?  Who  could  have  told 
her?" 

"John  himself." 

"How  much?" 

"I  don't  know." 

Sir  Oliver  brought  himself  to  an  abrupt  standstill 
by  the  side  of  his  wife. 

"He  ought  n't  to  have  done  anything  of  the  kind. 
Such  things  are  not  fit  for  her  to  hear." 

"That 's  the  dreadful  mistake  we  've  made  all  along, 
my  dear  Oliver,"  said  Herold,  sadly;  and  he  disclosed 
to  them  probabilities  of  which  they  had  not  dreamed. 

Lady  Blount  began  to  cry  silently,  and  her  husband 
laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder.  She  put  up  her  own 
and  clasped  it.  They  looked  very  forlorn,  robbed  of 
the  darling  they  loved.  The  new  Stellamaris  was 
alien  to  their  conservatism.  They  did  not  know  her. 
They  were  lost.  Like  children  they  clasped  hands,  and 
their  hearts  were  united  at  last  in  common  dismay. 

Herold  turned  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 
Presently  he  said : 


278  STELLA    MARIS 

"She  's  in  the  garden.  I  '11  go  and  talk  to  her,  if 
she  will  let  me." 

"Do,  Walter  dear.  Try  to  make  her  speak.  It  's 
that  awful  silence  that  we  can't  bear." 

"She  has  always  been  devilish  fond  of  you,"  said 
Sir  Oliver. 

Herold  went  out  and  came  upon  her,  escorted  by 
Constable,  in  a  path  bordered  on  each  side  by  Canter- 
bury bells  and  fox-gloves  and  sweet-william.  She 
drew  herself  up  as  he  approached,  and  looked  at  him 
like  some  wraith  or  White  Lady  caught  in  the  day- 
light, with  no  gleam  of  welcome  in  her  glance.  The 
old  dog,  however,  pushed  by  her  to  greet  Herold, 
whom  he  held  in  vast  approbation.  Then,  aware  of 
being  relieved  from  duty,  he  wandered  down  the  path, 
where  he  lay  down  and,  like  a  kindly  elder,  suffered 
the  frisky  impudence  of  a  stray  kitten  of  the  house- 
hold. 

"I  suppose  they  Ve  sent  for  you  because  they  think 
I  am  ill,"  Stella  began  suspiciously. 

"You  are  ill,  dearest,"  he  replied  in  a  quiet  voice, 
''and  it  's  causing  us  all  very  deep  grief." 

"I  'm  not  ill,"  she  retorted.  "But  every  one  's  wor- 
rying me.  I  wish  you  would  tell  them  to  leave  me 
alone." 

He  took  a  nerveless,  unresponsive  hand  and  put  it 
to  his  lips.  "Stellamaris,  Stella  darling,  don't  you 
know  how  we  all  love  you?  How  we  would  give 
everything,  life  itself,  to  make  you  happy?" 

She  withdrew  her  hand.  "Don't  talk  of  happiness. 
It  's  a  delusion." 

"Every  living  thing  can  be  happy  after  its  kind," 
said  Herold.  "Look  at  this  great  bumble-bee  swing- 
ing in  the  campanula." 

"You  were  n't  sent  here  to  talk  to  me  about  bum- 
ble-bees," she  said  with  an  air  of  defiance. 


STELLA   MARIS  279 

"No.    I  came  to  speak  to  you  about  John." 

It  was  a  thrust  of  the  scalpel.  It  hurt  him  cruelly 
to  deal  it,  but  it  had  to  be  dealt.  He  closely  watched 
its  effect.  Her  wan  face  grew  even  whiter,  and  her 
lips  grew  white,  and  she  held  herself  rigid.  Her  eyes 
were  hard. 

"I  forbid  you  to  mention  his  name  to  me." 

"I  must  disobey  you.  No,  my  dearest,"  said  he, 
gently  barring  the  path,  "you  must  listen.  John  is 
as  unhappy  and  as  ill  as  you  yourself.  He  is  suffering 
greatly.  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  him.  He  's 
going  on  like  a  madman.  You  must  not  be  unjust." 

"I  'm  not  unjust.  I  know  the  truth  at  last,  and  I 
judge  accordingly." 

"You  are  hard,  Stella.  Perhaps  that  's  the  first  un- 
kind word  anybody  has  ever  spoken  to  you — and  I  've 
got  to  speak  it,  worse  luck!  John  would  have  told 
you  long  ago  of  the  unhappy  things  in  his  life  if  he 
had  thought  they  could  possibly  concern  you.  As 
soon  as  he  found  that  they  might  do  so,  he  told  you 
frankly." 

"He  has  told  me  nothing,"  said  Stella,  icily. 

"He  wrote  to  you  about  his  marriage  over  a  week 
ago/' 

"I  did  n't  read  the  letter.  I  never  read  his  letters. 
I  don't  take  them  out  of  the  envelopes.  I  destroy 
them." 

Herold  stared  in  amazement.  "Then  how,"  he 
cried,  "do  you  know  what  you  call  the  truth  ?  What 
do  you  know?" 

"He  married  a  woman  who  is  still  alive.  I  know 
a  great  deal  more,"  she  added,  ingenuous  still  in  her 
cold  disdain. 

"More?"  His  brain  worked  against  baffling  con- 
jecture. Who  could  have  told  her?  Suddenly  his 
eyes  caught  the  shadow  of  tragedy.  He  made  a  step 


280  STELLA    MARIS 

forward  and  closed  his  hands  on  her  arms,  and  even 
then  he  felt  the  shock  and  pain  of  their  fragility.  In 
London,  a  short  time  ago,  they  were  round  and  deli- 
cately full. 

"Stellamaris  darling,  tell  me.  It  is  I,  Walter,  who 
have  loved  you  all  your  life,  and  to  whom  you  have 
always  told  everything.  Something  none  of  us  know 
has  happened.  What  is  it?" 

She  swayed  back  from  him,  and  half  closed  her 
eyes. 

"Let  me  go,"  she  said  faintly.  "Such  things  are 
not  to  be  spoken  of.  They  are  not  to  be  thought  of. 
They  only  come  in  horrible  dreams  one  can't  help." 

He  put  an  arm  round  her  instinctively  to  save,  her 
from  falling. 

"Who  told  you?     You  must  speak." 

She  wrenched  herself  free  and  stood  rigid  again. 

"She  told  me,  his  wife  herself." 

"His  wife!"    His  head  reeled. 

"His  deserted  wife,  a  woman  with  green  eyes  and 
thin  lips.  I  suppose  you  know  her.  She  came  down 
here  to  tell  me." 

"My  God!"  cried  Herold.     "My  God  in  heaven!" 

And  for  the  first  time  Stella  saw  a  man  in  white, 
shaking  anger,  showing  his  teeth  and  shaking  his  fists. 

"When  was  it?" 

She  told  him.  He  controlled  the  riot  within  him 
and  questioned  her  further,  almost  hectoringly,  mas- 
terfully, and  she  replied  like  a  woman  compelled  to 
obey,  yet  flinging  her  answers  defiantly.  And  he  went 
on  unrelenting,  fighting  not  her,  but  the  devil  that 
had  got  possession  of  her,  until  she  told  him  all,  even 
the  final  horror,  as  far  as  he  could  wring  confession 
from  her  virgin  fierceness;  for,  in  the  white-hot  pas- 
sion of  his  anger  he  had  challenged  her  knowledge  of 
evil  almost  as  directly  as  the  woman  had  done. 


STELLA   MARIS  281 

"And  you  believe  her?"  he  cried.  "You,  Stella- 
maris,  believe  that  murderous  thing  of  infamy,  when 
you  've  known  John  Risca  and  his  love  and  his  ten- 
derness all  your  life?  You  believe  it  possible — John 
and  Unity?  Good  God!  It  's  monstrous!  It  's  hell- 
ish!" 

He  planted  himself  on  the  path  before  her,  hands 
on  hips,  his  sensitive  face  set,  his  blue  eyes  aflame,  and 
looked  at  her  as  no  man  or  woman  had  ever  yet 
looked  at  Stellamaris.  And  she  met  his  look,  and  her 
eyes,  despite  the  battle  her  proud  soul  was  fighting, 
lost  their  hardness,  and  new  light  flashed  into  them,  as 
though  they  had  changed  from  agate  to  diamond. 

"She  loves  him,  body  and  soul,"  she  said.  "I  ought 
to  have  recognized  it  in  London.  I  did  n't  know  the 
meaning  of  things  then.  I  do  now." 

"Yes,  she  does  love  him;  she  loves  him  as  I  love 
you," — and,  unrealized  by  him,  there  came  into  his 
voice  the  vibrating  notes  of  passion  that  had  stirred 
Stellamaris  to  the  depths  at  the  theatre, — "with  every 
quivering  fibre,  heart  and  spirit,  body  and  soul."  He 
flung  both  hands  before  his  face, — these  were  words 
of  madness, — and  went  on  hurriedly :  "She  loves  him 
as  John  loves  you,  as  the  great  souls  of  the  earth 
can  love,  without  thought  of  hope,  just  because  they 
love." 

She  looked  at  him,  and  he  looked  at  her,  and  they 
stood,  as  they  had  been  standing  all  the  time,  in  the 
pathway,  between  the  gay  borders  of  flowers;  and 
the  sky  was  blue  overhead,  and  the  noonday  sun  ca- 
ressed the  ivy  and  lichens  on  the  Georgian  front  of 
the  Channel  House,  which  basked  peacefully  on  the 
farther  side  of  the  lawn.  The  kitten  had  frisked  away 
with  feline  inconsequence,  and  Constable  sprawled 
stiffly  asleep  on  the  gravel,  like  a  dead  dog. 

"You  say  you  love  me  like  that?"  said  Stellamaris. 


282  STELLA    MARIS 

"You  command  love.  Unity  herself  loves  you  like 
that,"  replied  Herold,  loyally. 

"What  reason  should  she  have  for  loving1  me  ?  She 
should  be  jealous  of  me,  as  I  was  of  her.  And  who 
is  she  ?  Who  is  Unity  ?"  she  asked  with  an  imperious 
little  stamp.  "I  Ve  been  lied  to  about  her  for  many 
years.  She  too  lied.  Will  you  explain  her?  If  she  's 
not  what  that  woman  said,  what  is  she?" 

"I  '11  tell  you,"  he  said. 

He  spared  her  nothing.  It  was  not  the  hour  for 
glossing-  over  unpleasant  things.  Let  her  judge  out 
of  the  fullness  of  knowledge.  At  his  tale  of  the  tor- 
turing— he  gave  her  the  details — she  shrank  back, 
covering  her  eyes  and  uttered  a  sobbing  cry. 

"It  's  too  horrible!  T  can't  bear  it;  I  can't  be- 
lieve it." 

He  waited  a  while  to  give  her  time  for  recovery. 

"It  's  true,"  said  he. 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  she  cried,  facing  him  again. 
"The  woman  warned  me  against  lies  that  were  being 
told  about  her — lies  to  screen  Unity." 

"It  's  true,"  he  repeated.  "If  you  want  proofs,  I 
could  get  you  the  newspaper  reports  of  the  trial.  She 
was  put  into  prison  for  three  years.  Then  John  swore 
that  Unity  should  never  suffer  again,  and,  by  way  of 
reparation,  adopted  her  as  his  own  daughter.  He 
came  like  a  god  and  lifted  her  from  misery  to  happi- 
ness. That  's  why  she  loves  him,  as  you  say,  body 
and  soul." 

"And  he  loves  her." 

Her  tone  staggered  him.  "He  loves  her  as  a  fa- 
ther loves  a  daughter." 

"And  she  as  a  woman  loves  a  lover.  I  'm  no  longer 
a  child.  I  know  what  I  'm  talking  about." 

Then  he  saw  how  deep  the  poison  had  gone.  It 
was  a  ghastly  travesty  of  Stellamaris  that  spoke. 


STELLA   MARIS  283 

"You  are  talking-  wickedness,  Stellamaris,"  he  said 
sternly.  "Go  on  your  knees  and  pray  to  God  for  for- 
giveness." 

She  threw  back  her  head.  "There  is  n't  a  God,  or 
He  would  not  allow  such  foulness  and  horror  to  be  on 
His  earth.  I  believe  in  nothing.  I  believe  nobody. 
I  would  just  as  soon  believe  that  woman  as  you.  At 
least  she  did  n't  pretend  to  be  good.  She  rejoiced 
in  her  vileness.  She  hid  nothing,  as  every  one  else 
hides  things.  And  now — "  her  voice  dropped  to  a 
tone  of  great  weariness — "don't  you  think  you  've  tor- 
tured me  enough  ?" 

The  word  was  a  sword  through  his  heart.  He 
stretched  out  reproachful  hands. 

"Stella,  dearest,  dearest — " 

"Forgive  me,"  she  said.  "Sometimes  I  hardly 
know  what  I  'm  saying." 

"If  you  would  only  trust  me!" 

She  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"I  can  trust  no  one,  not  even  you.  Let  me  go 
now." 

He  saw  that  she  was  at  the  end  of  her  strength. 
Any  concession  that  she  might  make  now  would  be 
for  him  a  Pyrrhic  victory.  And  it  was  true  that  he 
had  tortured  her — tortured  her,  as  his  whole  being 
asserted,  for  her  soul's  welfare.  But  he  could  probe 
her  no  further. 

They  walked  in  silence  toward  the  house.  Con- 
stable, as  soon  as  they  had  passed,  rose  and  followed 
them.  It  is  for  the  greater  happiness  of  big-hearted 
dogs  that  they  do  not  understand  all  things  human. 

At  the  foot  of  the  staircase  leading  to  Stella's  wing1 
they  parted. 

"Stella,  darling,"  said  he,  taking  her  hand,  "if  you 
will  believe  nothing  else,  believe  this:  all  our  hearts 
are  breaking  for  you." 


284  STELLA    MARIS 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  long,  odd  moment,  with 
the  diamond  glitter  in  her  eyes. 

"Mine  is  broken,"  she  said. 

He  stood  and  watched  her  wearily  mounting  the 
stairs  until  she  disappeared  at  the  turn  of  the  landing, 
the  old  hound  scrabbling  up  behind  her. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

HEROLD  caught  his  train.  He  had  accom- 
plished his  mission;  Stella  had  spoken.  In 
a  few  words  he  had  enlightened  Stella's  un- 
happy guardians. 

"Be  gentle  with  her,"  he  had  recommended.  "Don't 
try  to  force  her  confidence.  Don't  let  Ransome  feel 
her  pulse  too  often  or  give  her  physic.  Talk  about 
the  tropics,  and  try  to  stimulate  her  interest  and  make 
her  think  she  would  like  to  go  on  a  sea-voyage.  Or, 
if  you  can  get  hold  of  a  lost  baby,  stick  it  in  the  gar- 
den where  she  can  find  it." 

He  had  talked  bravely  to  the  old  people,  who  would 
have  cut  off  each  other's  heads — and  their  own,  for 
the  matter  of  that — to  bring  back  the  Stellamaris  of 
a  year  ago.  They  clung  to  him  pathetically.  If  he 
had  counselled  them  to  shut  Stella  in  a  room  and  read 
the  minor  prophets  aloud  to  her,  they  would  have 
obeyed  him  with  unquestioning  meekness.  With  a 
smile  on  his  lips,  he  had  put  heart  into  them.  Lady 
Blount  had  kissed  him,  and  Sir  Oliver,  watery-eyed, 
had  wrung  his  hand. 

In  the  empty  carriage  of  the  train  he  gave  way,  as 
your  highly  strung,  sensitive  man  must  do,  if  he 
would  avoid  disaster.  He  did  not  think.  To  think 
implies  an  active  process.  But  thoughts  came  tumul- 
tuous, and  without  a  struggle  he  let  them  assail  him. 
He  felt  that  if  he  attempted  to  put  into  logical  order 
the  intricacies  of  passionate  emotion  in  which  he  and 
John  and  Stella  and  Unity  were  involved,  if  he  at- 

285 


286  STELLA    MARIS 

tempted  to  gage  the  effect  on  all  their  lives  of  this 
new  horror  brought  therein  by  the  murderous  devil- 
woman,  if  he  allowed  himself  to  think  of  Stella's 
challenge,  "You  say  you  love  me  like  that?"  he 
would  go  mad.  Let  the  burning  thoughts  sear  his 
brain  as  they  listed;  his  sanity  demanded  passive  sur- 
render. 

At  Victoria  Station  he  collected  his  wits  so  as  to 
deal  with  the  commonplace  routine  of  life.  He  looked 
at  the  clock,  rapidly  calculating.  He  would  have  time 
to  go  home,  bolt  some  food  and  drink,  and  go  off  to 
keep  his  appointment  with  the  men  of  money.  He 
drove  to  his  house  in  Kensington  in  a  taxicab,  and, 
telling  the  driver  to  wait,  let  himself  in  with  his  latch- 
key. His  man  met  him  in  the  hall. 

"A  lady  waiting  to  see  you,  sir." 

"I  have  no  time  to  see  ladies.  Tell  her  I  'm  very 
sorry,  and  bring  me  a  sandwich  and  a  whisky  and 
soda." 

He  thought  she  was  some  persistent  actress  in 
search  of  an  engagement.  Such  phenomena  are  not 
infrequent  in  the  overcrowded  theatrical  world. 

"It  's  a  Miss  Blake,  sir,  Mr.  Risca's  ward.  She 
telephoned  this  morning,  and  asked  when  you  would 
be  likely  to  be  in — " 

"Miss  Blake?" 

He  stood  amazed.  What  was  Unity  doing  in  his 
house?  It  was  only  yesterday  that  he  had  seen  her. 
What  had  happened? 

"Where  is  she?" 

"In  the  library,  sir." 

He  ran  up  the  stairs.  As  he  entered  the  room, 
Unity  rose  from  the  straight-backed  chair  in  which 
she  had  been  sitting  and  rushed  to  meet  him.  She 
was  an  eager  and  anxious  Unity,  still  wearing  the  tar- 
tan blouse,  but  not  the  gorgeous  hat  of  yesterday.  A 


STELLA    MARIS  287 

purple  tam-o'-shanter  hastily  secured  by  a  glass- 
headed  pin,  had  taken  the  place  of  that  extravagant 
creation. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Herold,  do  you  know  anything  about 
guardian?" 

The  eagerness  faded  from  her  face  as  she  saw  the 
perplexity  on  his. 

"What  do  you  mean,  dear?" 

"He  went  out  last  night  about  seven  o'clock,  and 
has  n't  come  back  since."  She  wrung  her  hands.  "I 
thought  you  might  be  able  to  tell  me  something." 

He  could  only  look  at  her  in  blank  dismay,  and 
question  her  as  to  John's  latest  known  movements. 
There  was  very  little  to  tell. 

"He  had  an  appointment  in  town  after  lunch,  which 
was  the  last  time  I  saw  him.  I  heard  him  come  in 
about  a  quarter  to  seven  and  go  straight  into  his 
study—" 

"He  left  me  about  half-past  five — at  the  club,"  said 
Herold.  "He  was  all  nerves  and  crazy-headedness. 
He  almost  quarrelled  with  me.  He  said  he  had  n't 
slept  for  weeks." 

"He  has  n't,"  said  Unity.  "That  's  what  makes  me 
so  frightened." 

"Well,  go  on." 

"I  heard  him  come  in.  I  was  in  the  kitchen  help- 
ing Phoebe.  A  few  minutes  afterward  I  heard  him 
walk  down  the  passage — you  know  his  quick,  heavy 
tread — and  go  out  again,  slamming  the  street  door. 
We  waited  dinner  for  ever  so  long,  and  he  did  n't 
come.  And  then  it  was  bedtime.  Aunt  Gladys  was  n't 
anxious,  because  nothing  that  guardian  did  now 
would  surprise  her.  She  's  like  that,  you  know.  And 
I  did  n't  think  very  much  about  it  at  first,  because 
he  's  always  irregular.  But  when  it  came  to  two  and 
three  and  four  o'clock  in  the  morning — I  can  never 


288  STELLA    MARIS 

go  to  sleep  till  I  hear  him  come  in,  you  know,"  she  ex- 
plained simply — "then  I  was  terribly  anxious — " 

"Why  did  n't  you  ring  me  up  during  the  night?" 
Herold  asked. 

"I  thought  of  it;  but  I  did  n't  like  to  disturb  you. 
I  did  early  this  morning,  but  your  servant  said  you 
had  already  gone  down  to  Southcliff.  Oh,  I  was  so 
hoping,"  she  sighed,  "that  he  had  gone  to  Southcliff, 
too!  There  was  a  letter  waiting  for  him — " 

"Good  Lord!"  cried  Herold,  with  a  flash  of  mem- 
ory, "so  there  was !  From  Lady  Blount." 

"Do  you  know  what  was  in  it?"  she  asked  quickly. 

"Lady  Blount  told  me.  She  said  that  Stellamaris 
was  very  ill,  going  to  die, — an  alarming  letter, — and 
begged  him  to  go  down  at  once." 

"And  he  went  out,  but  he  did  n't  go  down,"  said 
Unity. 

Their  eyes  met,  and  the  same  fear  froze  them. 

"Did  you  look—" 

"No;  how  could  I?    The  drawer  was  locked." 

"It  must  be  broken  open,"  said  Herold. 

The  man-servant  came  in  to  ask  whether  he  should 
pay  and  dismiss  the  waiting  driver  of  the  taxi. 

"Yes,"  said  Herold,  after  a  moment's  reflection. 
"And,  Ripley,  you  might  telephone  to  Mr.  Bowers  of 
Temple  Chambers  and  say  that  I  'm  detained;  that  I 
don't  know  whether  I  '11  Ge  able  to  come  at  all." 

It  was  impossible  to  transact  business  beneath  this 
lowering  cloud  of  tragedy.  The  men  of  money  could 
wait  till  John  was  found,  dead  or  alive.  Suddenly  he 
remembered  that  a  taxicab  was  the  one  thing  neces- 
sary. He  recalled  Ripley. 

"Let  the  cab  wait."  He  turned  to  Unity  as  soon  as 
the  man  had  closed  the  door. 

"It  must  be  broken  open,  and  at  once.  I  '11  come 
with  you  and  do  it.  I  '11  take  the  responsibility." 


STELLA    MARIS  289 

"Yes,"  said  Unity.     "Let  us  know  the  worst." 

"I  '11  go  and  fetch  a  couple  of  bunches  of  keys. 
We  may  find  one  to  fit." 

He  went  out  and  soon  afterward  returned,  the  keys 
jingling  in  his  pocket.  Ripley  was  at  the  hall  tele- 
phone as  they  passed. 

"I  'm  going  up  to  Mr.  Risca's,"  said  Herold. 

In  a  few  moments  they  were  speeding  across  Lon- 
don. Unity  sat  very  tense,  her  red  hands  clenched 
together  till  the  knuckles  showed  white. 

"The  house  first,  and  then  Scotland  Yard,"  he  said. 

"We  must  know  first,"  she  assented. 

He  glanced  at  her  admiringly. 

"You  're  one  of  the  bravest  girls  I  Ve  ever  met." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "It  is  n't  a  time  for 
playing  the  fool  and  going  into  hysterics,"  she  said 
bluntly. 

Many  girls  of  her  mongrel  origin  would  have 
broken  down  under  the  strain,  shed  wild  tears,  ut- 
tered incoherences  of  terror.  Not  so  Unity.  "She  is 
the  kind  that  walks  through  fire,"  thought  Herold. 

They  spoke  little.  He  grew  sick  with  anxiety. 
Lady  Blount's  letter  had  been  the  determining  cause 
of  John's  flight  from  home.  Of  this  there  could  be 
no  question.  It  had.  not  been  a  sane  man  who  raved 
at  him  yesterday.  He  was  primed  for  any  act  of 
madness.  The  letter  was  the  spark.  Stella  ill,  fading 
away  to  a  ghost  and  as  silent  as  one,  victim  to  an  ob- 
scure and  wasting  disease  that  baffled  them  all ;  Stella 
dying  before  their  eyes — the  unhappy  picture  of  the 
beloved  was  poignant  in  its  artlessness.  It  would  have 
stirred  to  grief  any  friend  of  Stellamaris.  What  emo- 
tions, then,  had  it  not  aroused  in  the  breast  of  the 
man  who  loved  her  desperately,  and  whose  very  love 
had  brought  her  to  this  pitch  of  suffering,  to  this  im- 
minence of  dissolution?  And  the  appeal  for  help,  for 


29o  STELLA   MARIS 

the  immediate  presence  of  the  rock  and  tower  of 
strength  of  the  household,  with  what  ironic  force  had 
that  battered  at  the  disordered  brain?  There  were 
only  three  courses  for  a  man  situated  like  Risca,  and 
gifted  or  afflicted  with  Risca's  headstrong  and  gloomy 
temperament,  to  pursue:  to  surrender  to  the  appeal, 
which  he  had  not  done;  to  find  his  friend  and  bid  him 
stand  by  while  he  cursed  the  day  he  was  born  and  the 
God  who  made  him  and  the  devil-ruled  welter  of  in- 
famy which  called  itself  a  world,  which  likewise  he 
had  not  done;  or,  in  a  paroxysm  of  despair  and  re- 
morse, to  fling  himself  beyond  reach  of  human  touch 
and  seek  a  refuge  for  himself  in  the  darkness.  The 
conclusion  that  he  had  taken  this  last  course  forced 
itself  with  diabolical  logic  on  Herold's  mind.  The 
very  key  to  the  door  of  darkness  had  lain  ready  to 
his  hand,  hidden  in  the  study  drawer.  Before  the 
eyes  of  the  imaginative  man,  strung  tight  almost  to 
breaking-point  by  the  morning's  emotions,  flashed 
vivid  pictures  of  tragic  happenings — so  vivid  that  they 
could  not  but  be  true :  the  reading  of  the  letter ;  John 
standing  by  the  study  table ;  the  letter  dropping  from 
his  hands,  which,  in  familiar  gesture,  went  to  the  crisp, 
grizzly  hair;  the  bloodshot  eyes, — he  had  noted  them 
yesterday, — the  heavy  jaw  momentarily  hanging 
loose,  then  snapping  tight  with  a  grating  of  the  teeth ; 
the  unlocking  of  the  drawer;  the  snatching  up  of  the 
evil,  glittering  thing ;  the  exit  along  the  passage,  with 
"his  quick,  heavy  tread." 

Did  he  remember  to  lock  the  drawer  again?  The 
vision  was  elusive.  The  question  became  insistent. 

"Did  you  try  the  drawer?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

"No,"  said  Unity. 

It  was  unlocked.  He  felt  sure  that  it  was  unlocked. 
He  recalled  the  moving  picture,  bade  it  stay  while  he 
concentrated  his  soul  on  the  drawer.  And  one  instant 


STELLA    MARIS  291 

it  was  shut,  and  another  it  did  not  seem  flush  with  the 
framing-table  and  a  crack,  a  sixteenth  of  an  inch,  was 
visible. 

He  strove  to  carry  on  the  vision  beyond  the  house- 
door  ;  but  in  vain.  He  saw  John  Risca  going1  out  grim 
into  the  soft  and  clouded  summer  evening,  and  then 
the  figure  disappeared  into  lucent  but  impenetrable 
space. 

Unity  gripped  his  hand.  Her  common  little  face 
was  like  marble. 

"Supposing  he  's  dead!" 

"I  won't  suppose  such  a  thing,"  said  Herold. 

"You  must.    Why  not  face  things  ?" 

"All  right.     Let  us  face  them." 

"Supposing  he  's  dead.  Do  you  think  he  's  wicked  ?" 

"Certainly  not.    Do  you?" 

"You  know  I  don't,"  said  Unity. 

"Of  course  I  know,"  said  Herold. 

"I  could  die  for  her  myself,  and  I  'm  not  a  man/' 
said  Unity. 

"Is  n't  it  best,  however,  to  live  for  those  one  loves, 
even  at  the  cost  of  suffering?" 

"Not  if  you  can  do  them  good  by  dying." 

"Supposing  he  's  dead,"  asked  Herold, — clean  di- 
rect souls  can  ask  each  other  such  questions, — "what 
will  you  do?" 

Her  grip  grew  fierce  as  she  turned  up  to  him  her 
snub-nosed  little  cockney  face.  "There  '11  be  no  need 
for  me  to  kill  myself.  I  '11  die  all  right.  Don't  make 
any  mistake  about  that." 

"But  supposing  he  is  alive,  and  supposing  the  bar- 
rier were  removed — I  mean,  supposing  the  woman — 
you  know  whom — were  no  longer  there,  and  he  mar- 
ried— what  would  you  do?" 

"What  would  you?" 

"I?" 


292  STELLA    MARIS 

"You  don't  think  you  can  fool  me,"  said  Unity. 
"You  love  Miss  Stella  as  much  as  he  does." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

Unity  flung  her  hand  to  the  outer  air.  "How  do  I 
know  that  's  an  omnibus?" 

"You  're  right,  my  dear,  I  do  love  her.  You  're 
one  of  the  few  human  beings  in  this  world  who  know 
what  love  means,  and  I  've  told  you  what  I  've  told 
to  no  one  living.  But  if  she  married  John  to-morrow, 
I  would  strangle  everything  wrong  in  me  and  devote 
my  life  to  watching  over  their  happiness." 

"Don't  you  think  I  'd  do  the  same?" 

"I  know  you  would." 

"Then  what  's  the  good  of  asking  me  what  I  'd 
do?"  said  Unity. 

"Talk  like  this  helps." 

Unity  sought  his  hand  again. 

"It  does,"  she  said  gently. 

There  was  silence  for  a  while.  The  white,  wall- 
inclosed  houses  of  Maida  Vale,  gay  in  the  sunshine, 
flashed  by  them.  She  gripped  his  hand  harder. 

"But  supposing  he  's  dead,  supposing  he  's  dead." 

"Let  us  suppose  nothing,  my  dear,"  said  Herold. 

The  cab  stopped  at  Fairmont,  Ossington  Road. 
Herold  gave  Unity  his  hand  to  alight,  and  together 
they  went  through  the  tiny  front  garden,  now  bright 
with  geraniums  and  petunias  and  pansies,  into  the 
house. 

Miss  Lindon,  who  had  been  watching  all  day  for 
John  by  the  drawing-room  window,  greeted  them  in 
the  passage,  her  eyes  red,  and  her  cap  askew  on  her 
white  hair. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Herold,  have  you  found  him?  ;Where 
is  he?  I  'm  sure  he  's  been  run  over  by  a  motor- 
omnibus,"  she  continued,  on  learning  that  Herold 
brought  no  news.  "The  way  they  whizz  upon  you 


STELLA    MARTS  295 

when  you  're  not  looking  is  so  bewildering.  The  old 
days  of  horses  were  bad  enough,  although  I  do  re- 
member his  poor  father  being  upset  out  of  a  rowing- 
boat  at  Ramsgate." 

"You  may  be  quite  sure,  dear  Miss  Lindon,"  said 
Herold,  gently,  "that  John  has  n't  met  with  a  street 
accident.  The  police  would  have  told  us  long  ago." 

"But  what  could  have  happened  to  him?  I  know 
I  Ve  thought  of  everything." 

"Very  likely  he  went  down  to  spend  the  night  in 
the  East  End,  so  as  to  write  a  descriptive  article  for 
the  review,"  said  Herold.  "You  have  n't  thought  of 
that." 

Miss  Lindon  admitted  she  had  not,  but  tearfully 
held  to  the  motor-omnibus  theory.  He  tried  to  reas- 
sure her.  Unity  clenched  her  teeth,  half  mad  with 
anxiety  to  get  to  the  fateful  drawer.  At  last  Herold 
led  the  dear  but  delaying  lady  into  the  drawing-room. 

"I  am  going  to  examine  John's  papers.  Very  likely 
I  shall  find  something  to  put  me  on  the  track.  You 
don't  mind  if  I  go  in  alone — with  Unity  to  tell  me 
where  things  are?" 

"I  'm  sure,  if  you  really  try,  you  '11  find  him.  You 
are  so  clever,"  she  replied. 

He  kissed  her  hand  and  left  her  sitting  by  the  win- 
dow, the  tears  running  down  her  cheeks.  In  the  pas- 
sage Unity  caught  him  by  the  hand. 

"Come  along!" 

They  ran  down  the  passage  into  the  study  and 
locked  the  door. 

"Which  is  the  drawer?" 

"The  writing-table — the  one  to  the  right." 

Herold  flew  to  it  and  tried  it.  His  vision  had  been 
false :  it  was  locked.  He  sat  down  in  John's  worn 
leather  writing-chair  and  pulled  out  his  bunches  of 
keys.  One  after  another  he  tried  them.  Some  were 

f 


294  STELLA    MARIS 

too  large,  others  too  small.  Now  and  then  one  fitted 
into  the  keyhole  and  turned  slightly  in  the  wards. 

"It  's  coming." 

"Yes— no." 

"Let  me  try;  it  won't  do." 

The  perspiration  streamed  upon  their  faces,  and 
their  fingers  shook.  Sometimes  the  tried  keys  slid 
back  into  the  bunch,  and  all  had  to  be  tried  over  again. 
A  piano  organ  which  had  been  playing  maddeningly 
in  front  of  the  house  ceased  suddenly,  and  there  was 
the  silence  of  death  in  the  room,  broken  only  by 
the  rattle  of  the  keys  and  the  tense  breathing  of  the 
two. 

At  last  they  assured  themselves  that  none  of  the 
keys  would  fit.  They  tried  to  wrench  the  drawer  open 
by  the  handles,  but  the  workmanship  was  stout.  It 
was  clattering  discord.  They  searched  the  room  for 
some  instrument  to  pick  or  break  open  the  lock.  They 
rummaged  among  unlocked  drawers  filled  with  papers, 
old  letters,  bits  of  sealing-wax,  forgotten  pipes  thrown 
together  haphazard  after  the  fashion  of  an  untidy 
man.  They  found  many  rusty  keys,  which  they  tried 
in  vain. 

"We  must  break  it  open,"  said  Herold. 

He  sent  Unity  for  a  screw-driver,  and  during  her 
short  absence  looked  through  the  papers  in  the  baskets 
on  the  table ;  but  they  gave  no  clue.  Unity  returned, 
and  locked  the  door  again  behind  her.  Once  more 
they  wrenched  and  jerked  the  drawer,  and  this  time  it 
gave  sufficiently  for  the  edge  of  the  screw-driver  to 
be  inserted.  And  at  last  the  woodwork  broke  away 
from  the  lock  and  the  drawer  flew  open,  and  there 
lay  the  bright  revolver  on  the  sealed  envelope  just  as 
Unity  had  described. 

Herold  sank  into  the  writing-chair,  and  Unity  stead- 
ied herself,  her  hands  behind  her,  against  the  table. 


STELLA    MARIS  295 

They  regarded  each  other  for  a  while,  pale,  panting, 
breathless. 

"Thank  God!"  he  whispered. 

"Yes,  thank  God!" 

So  they  remained,  recovering  from  their  almost  in- 
tolerable relief.  John  Risca  had  not  killed  himself.  It 
was  a  conclusion  logical  enough.  The  probability  was 
that  he  was  alive.  But  where?  What  had  become  of 
him?  With  what  frenzied  intention  had  he  fled  from 
the  house? 

Presently  Unity  drew  up  her  squat  little  figure  and 
closed  the  mutilated  drawer. 

"Can  she  have  anything  to  do  with  it?"  she  asked, 
looking  at  him  steadily. 

"She?" 

"Yes." 

There  was  no  need  of  explanation.  "She"  was  the 
incarnation  in  woman  of  all  evil.  He  rose  from  the 
chair,  putting  his  hand  to  his  forehead.  He  had  not 
thought  of  her  in  connection  with  John's  disappear- 
ance; judged  in  the  light  of  the  morning's  revelation, 
the  connection  was  more  than  possible.  Of  no  inge- 
nuity of  fiendishness  was  the  woman  incapable. 

"What  made  you  think  of  her  ?" 

"How  can  I  help  thinking  of  her?"  said  Unity. 

"It  is  the  she-devil/'  he  cried  excitedly.  "She  has 
been  at  work  already.  My  God!  I  have  it!"  He 
smote  his  palm  with  the  fist  of  the  other  hand.  "She 
has  told  him." 

"What?" 

"She  went  down  to  Southcliff  and  saw  Stellamaris. 
She  poisoned  her  ears  with  hideous  things.  She  was 
going  to  throw  her  over  the  cliff." 

Unity,  a  queer  light  behind  her  patient  eyes,  crept 
up  close  to  him,  and  an  ugly  look  accentuated  the 
coarseness  of  her  features. 


296  STELLA    MARTS 

"She  dared?  She  dared  to  speak  to  my  precious 
one?  What  did  she  say?  Tell  me." 

"She  told  her  she  was  John's  deserted  wife,  and 
that  you — "  he  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  saw  that 
he  was  not  dealing  with  a  young  girl,  but  with  a  tragic 
woman — "and  that  you  were  his  mistress." 

Unity  closed  her  eyes  for  a  moment  and  swallowed 
the  horror.  Then  she  looked  at  him  again. 

"And  what  else?" 

"She  gave  to  her  innocent  soul  to  understand  what 
a  mistress  was.  She  taunted  her  and  jeered  at  her. 
She  had  her  at  her  mercy." 

"When  did  you  learn  this?" 

"This  morning,  from  Stellamaris  herself.  I  told 
her  the  whole  truth  from  beginning  to  end,  but,  God 
help  her!  her  soul  is  so  poisoned  that  she  does  n't 
know  whether  to  believe  the  woman  or  me." 

"If  he  knew  that — if  he  knew  that,"  said  Unity, 
slowly,  "he  would  murder  her." 

"Would  to  God  she  were  murdered !"  cried  Herold 
in  a  shrill  voice.  "Would  to  God  she  were  dead! 
She  should  be  killed  outright  like  a  wild  beast.  But 
not  by  him,  oh,  not  by  him!  It  would  be  whirling 
catastrophe  and  chaos."  He  walked  wildly  and  ut- 
tered senseless  things.  Then  he  halted.  "But  why 
should  he  know?  Why  should  she  tell  him?  Why 
should  she  invite  her  own  destruction?  No,  she  can't 
have  told  him."  He  took  her  by  her  shoulders. 
"Unity,  he  must  never  know.  He  would  kill  her.  It 's 
a  hanging  matter.  It  's  unthinkable.  Swear  you  will 
never  tell  him." 

"I  '11  never  tell  him,"  said  Unity. 

"He  must  be  saved,"  continued  Herold,  on  the  same 
note,  his  sensitive  face  pinched  and  his  eyes  eager. 
"And  she  must  be  saved.  All  this  is  killing  them  both 
* — both  of  those  who  matter  all  the  world  to  you  and 


STELLA   MARIS  297 

me.  This  thing  of  infamy  is  standing  between  them 
and  blasting  their  lives.  She  will  live,  and  they  will 
be  destroyed." 

"If  she  -were  dead,  would  they  come  together?" 
asked  Unity. 

"Why  not?  What  's  to  prevent  them?  Time  and 
love  would  clear  up  clouds.  But  she — the  unutterable 
—she  will  live.  She  will  work  in  the  dark,  as  she  did 
that  night  when  she  stabbed  you." 

"I  'm  not  thinking  of  that,"  said  Unity. 

"But  I  am."  He  waved  her  disclaimer  aside,  not 
appreciating  for  the  moment  how  immeasurably  was 
she  lifted  above  the  plane  of  personal  desire  for  ven- 
geance. "I  am,"  he  repeated.  "She  is  walking  mur- 
der. She  meant  to  murder  you.  She  meant  to  mur- 
der Stellamaris.  Think  of  it!"  He  threw  out  his 
arms  in  a  wide  gesture.  "There  's  a  path  down  there 
— round  the  face  of  the  cliff — " 

"I  know  it,"  said  Unity.  "There  's  a  bench.  I 
used  to  sit  there." 

"She  lured  her  there.  You  know — it  's  sheer  above 
and  sheer  below  and  rocks  beneath.  She  played  with 
her,  cat  and  mouse,  would  have  thrown  her  over, 
dashed  her  down,  Unity — dashed  that  precious,  beau- 
tiful body  down  on  to  the  rocks!  But  she  did  n't. 
God  sent  somebody  to  save  her — to  save  her  life  that 
time.  But  she  failed.  She  will  try  again.  She  will 
work  her  devilishness  against  her — against  him — 
against  you." 

"I  tell  you,  I  don't  care  what  she  does  to  me,"  she 
interrupted  roughly.  "What  the  hell  does  it  matter 
what  she  does  to  me?" — It  was  the  aboriginal  gutter 
transcendentalized  that  spoke — "Leave  me  and  her  out 
of  it.  I  Ve  nothing  against  her.  I  'm  not  a  silly 
fool.  If  it  had  n't  been  for  her,  I  should  n't  be  here 
living  like  a  lady.  I  ain't  a  lady,  but  I  'm  supposed 


298  STELLA    MARIS 

to  be  one.  And  I  should  n't  have  known  him,  and  I 
should  n't  have  loved  him.  And  I  should  n't  have 
known  my  precious  one — and  I  should  n't  have  known 
you.  I  should  have  scrubbed  floors  and  washed  up 
plates  in  a  lodging-house — all  I  was  fit  for.  I  Ve 
nothing  against  her — nothing.  She  can  do  what  she 
likes  with  me;  but  with  him  and  her — "  She  broke 
off  on  the  up-note. 

"Yes,  you  and  I  don't  matter.  We  can  put  our 
foot  on  the  neck  of  our  own  little  devils,  can't  we?" 

Somehow  he  found  his  hands  round  Unity's  cheeks 
and  his  eyes  looking  into  hers;  she  suffered  the 
nervous  clasp  gladly,  knowing,  in  her  pure  girl's  heart, 
that  he  was  a  good  man,  that  he  loved  Stellamaris  as 
she  loved  John,  and  that  he  loved  John  as  she  loved 
Stellamaris.  Brother  and  sister,  in  a  spiritual  rela- 
tion singularly  perfect  in  this  imperfect  world,  they 
stood,  the  gentleman  of  birth  and  breeding,  the  artist, 
the  finely  fibred  man  of  wide  culture,  and  Unity 
Blake,  whose  mother  had  died  of  drink  in  a  slum  in 
Netting  Hill  Gate  a  year  after  her  father  had  died 
in  prison,  and  of  whom  Miss  Lindon  despaired  of 
ever  making  a  lady. 

There  came  a  twisting  of  the  door  handle.  They 
fell  apart.  Then  came  a  tapping  at  the  door.  Herold 
turned  the  key  and  opened.  It  was  Phoebe,  elderly 
and  gaunt.  She  clasped  her  hands  tight  in  front  of 
her. 

"Oh,  sir!  oh,  sir!"  she  said. 

"What  's  the  matter?" 

"Master — he  's  found.  Your  servant  has  just  tele- 
phoned. Mr.  Risca  's  met  with  an  accident  and  is  at 
your  house,  and  will  you  please  go  there  at  once  ?" 


CHAPTER   XXII 

THEY  found  him  lying  on  the  sofa,  a  pitiable  ob- 
ject, the  whole  of  his  head  from  the  back  of 
his  neck  to  his  eyebrows  swathed  in  bandages. 
His  clothes  were  mere  limp  and  discoloured  wrappings. 
They  looked  as  though  they  had  been  wet  through, 
for  the  red  of  his  tie  had  run  into  his  shirt-front  and 
collar.  The  coarse  black  sprouts  on  pallid  cheek  and 
upper  lip  gave  him  an  appearance  of  indescribable 
grime.  His  eyes  were  sunken  and  feverish. 

Unity  uttered  a  little  cry  as  she  saw  him,  but 
checked  it  quickly,  and  threw  herself  on  her  knees  by 
his  side. 

"Thank  God  you  're  alive !" 

He  put  his  hand  on  her  head. 

"I  'm  all  right,"  he  said  faintly ;  "but  you  should  n't 
have  come.  That  's  why  I  did  n't  go  straight  home. 
I  did  n't  want  to  frighten  you.  I  'm  a  ghastly  sight, 
and  I  should  haye  scared  your  aunt  out  of  her  wits." 

"But  how,  in  Heaven's  name,  man,"  said  Herold, 
"did  you  get  into  this  state?" 

"Something  hit  me  over  the  head,  and  I  spent  the 
night  in  rain  and  sea-water  on  the  rocks." 

"On  the  rocks?    Where?    At  Southcliff?" 

"Yes,"  said  John,  "at  Southcliff.  I  was  a  fool  to 
go  down,  but  I  've  been  a  fool  all  my  life,  so  a  bit 
more  folly  does  n't  matter."  He  closed  his  eyes. 
"Give  me  a  drink,  Wallie — some  brandy." 

Herold  went  into  the  dining-room,  which  adjoined 
the  library,  and  returned  with  decanter,  syphon,  and 

299 


300  STELLA    MARIS 

glasses.  He  poured  out  a  brandy  and  soda  for  John 
and  watched  him  drink  it;  then  he  realized  that  he, 
too,  would  be  the  better  for  stimulant.  With  an  ab- 
stemious man's  idea  of  taking  brandy  as  medicine,  he 
poured  out  for  himself  an  extravagant  dose,  mixed  a 
little  soda-water  with  it,  and  gulped  it  down. 

"That  '11  do  me  good,"  said  John;  but  on  saying  it 
he  fell  to  shivering,  despite  the  heat  of  the  summer 
afternoon. 

"You  've  caught  a  chill,"  cried  Unity.  She  coun- 
selled home  and  bed  at  once. 

"Not  yet,"  he  murmured.  "It  was  all  I  could  do  to 
get  here.  Let  me  rest  for  a  couple  of  hours.  I  shall 
be  all  right.  I  'm  not  going  to  bed,"  he  declared  with 
sudden  irritability;  "I  've  never  gone  to  bed  in  the 
daytime  in  my  life.  I  've  never  been  ill,  and  I  'm  not 
going  to  be  ill  now.  I  'm  only  stiff  and  tired." 

"You  '11  go  to  bed  here  right  away,"  said  Herold. 

John  protested.    Herold  insisted. 

"Those  infernal  clothes — you  must  get  them  off  at 
once,"  said  he.  John  being  physically  weak,  his  nat- 
ural obstinacy  gave  way.  Unity  saw  the  sense  of  the 
suggestion;  but  it  was  giving  trouble. 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  Herold.  "There  's  a  spare  bed- 
room. John  can  have  mine,  which  is  aired.  Mrs.  Rip- 
ley  will  see  to  it." 

He  went  out  to  give  the  necessary  orders.  Unity 
busied  herself  with  unlacing  and  taking  off  the  stiff- 
ened boots.  Herold  returned,  beckoned  to  Unity,  and 
whispered  that  he  had  telephoned  for  a  doctor.  Then 
he  said  to  John: 

"How  are  you  feeling,  dear  old  man?" 

"My  head  's  queer,  devilish  queer.  Something  fell 
on  it  last  night  and  knocked  me  out  of  time.  It  was 
raining,  and  I  was  sheltering  under  the  cliff  on  the 
beach,  the  other  side  of  the  path,  where  you  can  see 


STELLA   MARIS  301 

the  lights  of  the  house,  when  down  came  the  thing. 
I  must  have  recovered  just  before  dawn,  for  I  re- 
member staggering  about  in  a  dazed  way.  I  must 
have  taken  the  road  round  the  cliff,  thinking  it  the 
upper  road,  and  missed  my  footing  and  fallen  down. 
I  came  to  about  nine  this  morning,  on  the  rocks,  the 
tide  washing  over  my  legs.  I  'm  black  and  blue  all 
over.  Wonder  I  did  n't  break  my  neck.  But  I  'm 
tough." 

"Thank  God  you  're  alive !"  said  Unity  again. 

He  passed  his  hands  over  his  eyes.  "Yes.  You 
must  have  thought  all  manner  of  things,  dear.  I 
did  n't  realize  till  Ripley  told  me  that  I  had  n't  let  you 
know.  I  went  out,  meaning  to  catch  the  7:15  and 
come  back  by  the  last  train.  But  this  thing  knocked 
all  memory  out  of  me.  I  'm  sorry." 

Herold  looked  in  bewilderment  at  the  stricken  giant. 
Even  now  he  had  not  accounted  for  the  lunatic  and 
almost  tragic  adventure.  What  was  he  doing  on  the 
beach  in  the  rain?  What  were  the  happenings 
subsequent  to  his  recovering  consciousness  at  nine 
o'clock  ? 

"Does  it  worry  you  to  talk?"  he  asked. 

"No.  It  did  at  first — I  mean  this  morning.  But 
I  'm  all  right  now — nearly  all  right.  I  'd  like  to  tell 
you.  I  picked  myself  up,  all  over  blood,  a  devil  of  a 
mess,  and  crawled  to  the  doctor's — not  Ransome;  the 
other  chap,  Theed.  He  's  the  nearest;  and,  besides, 
I  did  n't  want  to  go  to  Ransome.  I  don't  think  any 
one  saw  me.  Theed  took  me  in  and  fixed  me  up  and 
dried  my  clothes.  Of  course  he  wanted  to  drag  me 
to  the  Channel  House,  but  I  would  n't  let  him.  I 
made  him  swear  not  to  tell  them.  I  don't  want  them 
to  know.  Neither  of  you  must  say  anything.  He  also 
tried  to  fit  me  out.  But,  you  know,  he  's  about  five 
foot  nothing ;  it  was  absurd.  As  soon  as  I  could  man- 


302  STELLA   MARTS 

age  it,  he  stuck  me  in  a  train,  much  against  his  will, 
and  I  came  on  here.  That  's  all." 

"If  only  I  had  known !"  said  Herold.  "I  was  down 
there  all  the  morning." 

"You?" 

"I  had  a  letter  from  Julia,  summoning  me." 

"So  had  I."  He  closed  his  eyes  again  for  a  mo- 
ment. Then  he  asked,  "How  is  Stella?" 

"I  had  a  long  talk  with  her.  I  may  have  straight- 
ened things  out  a  bit.  She  '11  come  round.  There  's 
no  cause  for  worry  for  the  present.  Julia  is  a  good 
soul,  but  she  has  no  sense  of  proportion,  and  where 
Stella  is  concerned  she  exaggerates." 

When  a  man  has  had  rocks  fall  on  his  head,  and 
again  has  fallen  on  his  head  upon  rocks,  it  is  best  to 
soothe  what  is  left  of  his  mind.  And  after  Walter  had 
partly  soothed  it, — a  very  difficult  matter,  first,  be- 
cause it  was  in  a  troubled  and  despairing  state,  and, 
secondly,  because,  John,  never  having  taken  Unity  into 
his  confidence,  references  had  to  be  veiled, — he  satis- 
fied the  need  of  another  brandy  and  soda.  Then  Rip- 
ley  came  in  to  announce  that  the  room  was  ready. 

"Ripley  and  I  will  see  to  him,"  said  Herold  to 
Unity.  "You  had  better  go  and  fetch  him  a  change 
of  clothes  and  things  he  may  want." 

"May  n't  I  wait  till  the  doctor  comes  ?"  she  pleaded. 

"Of  course,  my  dear.  There  's  no  hurry,"  said 
Herold. 

The  two  men  helped  Risca  to  his  feet,  and,  taking 
him  to  the  bedroom,  undressed  him,  clothed  him  in 
warm  pyjamas,  and  put  him  into  the  bed,'  where  a 
hot-water  bottle  diffused  grateful  heat.  Herold  had 
seen  the  livid  bruises  on  his  great,  muscular  limbs. 

"Any  one  but  you,"  said  he,  with  forced  cheeriness, 
"would  have  been  smashed  to  bits,  like  an  egg." 

"I  tell  you  I  'm  tough,"  John  growled.    "It  's  only 


STELLA   MARIS  303 

to  please  you  that  I  submit  to  this  silly  foolery  of 
going  to  bed." 

As  soon  as  Ripley  was  dismissed,  he  called  Herold 
to  his  side. 

"I  would  like  to  tell  you  everything,  Wallie.  I 
could  n't  in  the  other  room.  Unity,  poor  child,  knows 
nothing  at  all  about  things.  Naturally.  I  had  been 
worried  all  the  afternoon.  I  thought  I  saw  her — 
you  know — hanging  about  outside  the  office.  It  was 
just  before  I  met  you  at  the  club.  I  did  n't  tell  you, 
— perhaps  I  ought  to, — but  that  was  why  I  was  so 
upset.  But  you  '11  forgive  me.  You  've  always  for- 
given me.  Anyway,  I  thought  I  saw  her.  It  was  just 
a  flash,  for  she,  if  it  was  she,  was  swallowed  up  in 
the  traffic  of  Fleet  Street.  After  leaving  the  club,  I 
went  back  to  the  office — verification  in  proofs  of 
something  in  Baxter's  article.  I  found  odds  and  ends 
to  do.  Then  I  went  home,  and  Julia's  letter  lay  on 
my  table.  I  've  been  off  my  head  of  late,  Wallie.  For 
the  matter  of  that,  I  'm  still  off  it.  I  've  hardly  slept 
for  weeks.  I  found  Julia's  letter.  I  looked  at  my 
watch.  There  was  just  time  to  catch  the  7:15.  I 
ran  out,  jumped  into  a  taxi,  and  caught  it  just  as  it 
was  starting.  But  as  I  passed  by  a  third-class  car- 
riage,— in  fact,  I  realized  it  only  after  I  had  gone 
several  yards  beyond;  one  rushes,  you  know, — I 
seemed  to  see  her  face — those  thin  lips  and  cold  eyes 
— framed  in  the  window.  The  guard  pitched  me  into 
a  carriage.  I  looked  out  for  her  at  all  the  stations. 
At  Tring  Bay  the  usual  crowd  got  out.  I  did  n't  see 
her.  No  one  like  her  got  out  at  Southcliff.  What  's 
the  matter,  Wallie?"  He  broke  off  suddenly. 

"Nothing,  man;  nothing,"  said  Herold,  turning 
away  and  fumbling  for  his  cigarette-case. 

"You  looked  as  if  you  had  seen  a  ghost.  It  was 
I  who  saw  the  ghost."  He  laughed.  And  the  laugh, 


304  STELLA   MARIS 

coming  from  the  haggard  face  below  the  brow-reach- 
ing white  bandage,  was  horrible. 

"Your  brain  was  playing  you  tricks,"  said  Herold. 
"You  got  to  Southcliff.  What  happened?" 

"I  felt  a  fool,"  said  John.  "Can't  you  see  what  a 
fool  a  man  feels  when  he  knows  he  has  played  the 
fool?" 

Bit  by"  bit  he  revealed  himself.  At  the  gate  of  the 
Channel  House  he  reflected.  He  had  not  the  courage 
to  enter.  Stella  would  be  up  and  about.  He  resolved 
to  wait  until  she  went  to  bed.  He  wandered  down  tc 
the  beach.  The  rain  began  to  fall,  fine,  almost  imper- 
ceptible. The  beacon-light  in  the  west  window  threw 
a  vanishing  shaft  into  the  darkness. 

"We  saw  it  once — don't  you  remember  ? — years  ago 
when  you  gave  her  the  name — Stellamaris.  I  sat  like 
a  fool  and  watched  the  window.  How  long  I  don't 
know.  My  God!  Wallie,  you  don't  know  what  it  is 
to  be  shaken  and  racked  by  the  want  of  a  woman — " 

"By  love  for  a  woman,  you  mean,"  said  Herold. 

"It  's  the  same  thing.  At  last  I  saw  her.  She 
stood  defiant  in  the  light.  She  had  changed.  I  cried 
out  toward  her  like  an  idiot," — the  rugged,  grim  half 
face  visible  beneath  the  bandage  was  grotesque,  a 
parody  of  passion, — "and  I  stayed  there,  watching, 
after  she  had  gone  away.  How  long  I  don't  know.  It 
was  impossible  to  ring  at  the  door  and  see  Oliver  and 
Julia." 

He  laughed  again.  "You  must  have  some  sense  of 
humour,  my  dear  man.  Fancy  Oliver  and  Julia !  What 
could  I  have  said  to  them?  What  could  they  have 
said  to  me?  I  sat  staring  up  at  her  window.  The 
rain  was  falling.  Everything  was  still.  It  was  night. 
You  know  how  quiet  everything  is  there.  Then  I 
seemed  to  hear  footsteps  and  I  turned,  and  a  kind  of 
shape — a  woman's — disappeared.  I  know  I  was  off 


STELLA   MARIS  305 

my  head,  but  I  began  to  think.  I  had  a  funny  expe- 
rience once — I  Ve  never  told  you.  It  was  the  day  she 
came  out  of  prison.  I  sat  down  in  St.  James's  Park 
and  fell  half  asleep, — that  sort  of  dog  sleep  one  has 
when  one's  tired, — and  I  thought  I  saw  her  going  for 
Stella — Stella  in  her  bed  at  the  Channel  House — go- 
ing to  strangle  her.  This  came  into  my  mind,  and 
then  something  hit  me, — a  chunk  of  overhanging  cliff 
loosened  by  the  rain,  I  suppose, — and,  as  I  Ve  told 
you,  it  knocked  me  out.  But  it  's  devilish  odd  that 
she  should  be  mixed  up  in  it." 

"As  I  said,  your  brain  was  playing  you  tricks,"  said 
Herold,  outwardly  calm;  but  within  himself  he  shud- 
dered. The  woman  was  like  a  foul  spirit  hovering  un- 
seen about  those  he  loved. 

Presently  the  doctor,  a  young  man  with  a  cheery 
face,  came  in  and  made  his  examination.  There  was 
no  serious  damage  done.  The  only  thing  to  fear  was 
the  chill.  If  the  patient's  temperature  went  down  in 
the  morning,  he  could  quite  safely  be  moved  to  his 
own  home.  For  the  present  rest  was  imperative,  im- 
mediate sleep  desirable.  He  wrote  a  prescription,  and 
with  pleasant  words  went  away.  Then  Unity,  sum- 
moned to  the  room,  heard  the  doctor's  comforting 
opinion. 

"I  '11  be  with  you  to-morrow,"  said  John. 

"You  don't  mind  leaving  him  to  Mrs.  Ripley  and 
me  just  for  one  night?"  asked  Herold. 

"He  's  always  safe  with  you,"  Unity  replied,  her 
eyes  fixed  not  on  him,  but  on  John  Risca.  "Good-bye, 
Guardian  dear." 

John  drew  an  arm  from  beneath  the  bedclothes  and 
put  it  round  her  thin  shoulders.  "Good-by,  dear. 
Forgive  me  for  giving  you  such  a  fright,  and  make 
my  peace  with  auntie.  You  '11  be  coming  back  with 
my  things,  won't  you?" 


306  STELLA    MARIS 

"Of  course;  but  you  '11  be  asleep  then." 

"I  should  n't  wonder,"  said  John. 

She  made  him  cover  up  his  arm  again  and  tucked 
the  bedclothes  snugly  about  him,  her  finger-tips  lin- 
gering by  his  cheeks. 

"I  '11  leave  you,  too.  Try  and  get  to  sleep,"  said 
Herold. 

They  went  together  out  of  the  room  and  back  to 
the  library. 

"Has  he  said  anything  more?" 

He  stood  before  her  trembling  all  over. 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

He  burst  into  an  uncontrollable  cry.  "It  's  that 
hellish  woman  again !  He  saw  her  spying  on  him  out- 
side his  office,  he  saw  her  in  a  railway  carriage  on  the 
train  he  took.  Because  she  disappeared  each  time,  he 
thinks  it  was  an  hallucination;  and  somehow  he  was 
aware  of  her  presence  just  before  the  piece  of  rock 
came  down." 

Unity's  face  beneath  the  skimpy  hair  and  rubbishy 
tam-o'-shanter  was  white  and  strained. 

"She  threw  it.    I  knew  she  threw  it." 

"So  do  I.  He  saw  her.  She  disappeared  as  she 
did  that  night  in  the  fog.  A  woman  like  that  is  n't 
human.  She  has  the  power  of  disappearing  at  will. 
You  can't  measure  her  cunning." 

"What  did  he  go  down  for?" 

He  told  her.    Unity's  lips  twitched. 

"And  he  sat  there  in  the  rain  just  looking  at  her 
window?" 

She  put  out  her  hand.  "Good-bye,  Mr.  Herold. 
When  you  see  Miss  Stellamaris,  you  '11  tell  her  I  'm 
a  good  girl — in  that  way,  you  know — and  that  I  love 
her.  She  has  been  a  kind  of  beautiful  angel  to  me — 
has  always  been  with  me.  It 's  funny;  I  can't  explain. 
But  you  understand.  If  you  'd  only  let  her  see  that, 
I  'd  be  so  happy — and  perhaps  she  'd  be  happier." 


STELLA    MARIS  307 

"I  '11  do  my  utmost,"  said  Herold. 

He  accompanied  her  down-stairs,  and  when  she 
had  gone,  he  returned  to  the  library  and  walked  about. 
The  horror  of  the  woman  was  upon  him.  He  drank 
another  brandy  and  soda.  After  a  while  Ripley  came 
in  with  a  soiled  card  on  a  tray.  He  looked  at  it  stu- 
pidly— "Mr.  Edwin  Travers" — and  nodded. 

"Shall  I  show  the  gentleman  up?" 

He  nodded  again,  thinking  of  the  woman. 

When  the  visitor  came  in  he  vaguely  recognized 
him  as  a  broken-down  actor,  a  colleague  of  early  days. 
As  in  a  dream  he  bade  the  man  sit  down,  and  gave 
him  cigarettes  and  drink,  and  heard  with  his  outer 
ears  an  interminable  tale  of  misfortune.  At  the  end 
of  it  he  went  to  his  desk  and  wrote  out  a  cheque,  which 
he  handed  to  his  guest. 

"I  can't  thank  you,  old  man.  I  don't  know  how  to. 
But  as  soon  as  I  can  get  an  engagement — hello,  old 
man,"  he  cried,  glancing  at  the  cheque,  "you  've  made 
a  funny  mistake — the  name !' ' 

Herold  took  the  slip  of  paper,  and  saw  that  he  had 
made  the  sum  payable  not  to  Edwin  Travers,  but  to 
Louisa  Risca.  It  was  a  shock,  causing  him  to  brace 
his  faculties.  He  wrote  out  another  cheque,  and  the 
man  departed. 

He  went  softly  into  John's  room  and  found  him 
sleeping  peacefully. 

Soon  afterward  Ripley  announced  that  dinner  was 
ready.  It  was  past  six  o'clock. 

"Great  Heavens !"  he  cried  aloud,  "I  Ve  got  to  play 
to-night." 

After  a  hurried  wash  he  went  into  the  dining-room 
and  sat  down  at  the  table,  but  the  sight  and  smell  of 
food  revolted  him.  He  swallowed  a  few  mouthfuls  of 
soup;  the  rest  of  the  dinner  he  could  not  touch.  The 
horror  of  the  woman  had  seized  him  again.  He 


308  STELLA    MARIS 

drank  some  wine,  pushed  back  his  chair,  and  threw 
down  his  table-napkin. 

"I  don't  want  anything  else.  I  'm  going  for  a 
walk.  I  '11  see  you  later  at  the  theatre." 

The  old-fashioned  Kensington  street,  with  its  dou- 
ble line  of  Queen  Anne  houses  slumbering  in  the  aft- 
ernoon sunshine,  was  a  mellow  blur  before  his  eyes. 
Whither  he  was  going  he  knew :  what  he  was  going 
to  do  he  knew  not.  The  rigid  self-control  of  the  day, 
relaxed  at  times,  but  always  kept  within  grip,  had  at 
last  escaped  him.  Want  of  food  and  the  unaccus- 
tomed drink  had  brought  about  an  abnormal  state  of 
mind.  He  was  aware  of  direction,  aware,  too,  of  the 
shadow-shapes  of  men  and  women  passing  him  by,  of 
traffic  in  the  roadway.  He  walked  straight,  alert,  his 
gait  and  general  demeanour  unaffected,  his  outer  senses 
automatically  alive.  He  walked  down  the  narrow, 
shady  Church  Street,  and  paused  for  a  moment  or 
two  by  the  summer  greenery  of  Kensington  Church- 
yard until  there  was  an  opportunity  of  crossing  the 
High  Street,  now  at  the  height  of  its  traffic.  He 
strode  westward  past  the  great  shops,  a  lithe  man  in 
the  full  vigour  of  his  manhood.  Here  and' 'there  a 
woman  lingering  in  front  of  displays  of  millinery 
recognized  the  well-known  actor  and  nudged  her 
companion. 

The  horror  within  him  had  grown  to  a  consuming 
thing  of  flame.  Instead  of  the  quiet  thoroughfares 
down  which  he  turned,  he  saw  picture  after  shudder- 
ing picture — the  woman  and  Stellamaris,  the  woman 
and  John  Risca.  She  attacked  soul  as  well  as  body. 
The  pictures  took  the  forms  of  horrible  grotesques. 
Within,  his  mind  worked  amazingly,  like  a  machine 
escaped  from  human  control  and  running  with  blind 
relentlessness.  He  had  said  years  ago  that  he  would 
pass  through  his  hell-fire.  He  was  passing  through 
it  now. 


STELLA    MARIS  309 

The  destroyer  must  be  kept  from  destroying  or  be 
destroyed.  Which  of  these  should  be  accomplished 
through  his  agency?  One  or  the  other.  Of  one  thing 
he  was  certain,  with  an  odd,  undoubting  certainty: 
that  he  would  find  her,  and  finding  her,  that  he  would 
let  loose  upon  her  the  wrath  of  God.  She  should  be 
chained  up  forever  or  he  would  strangle  her.  Shiv- 
ering thrills  diabolically  delicious  ran  through  him  at 
the  thought.  Supposing  he  strangled  her  as  he  would 
a  mad  cat?  That  were  better.  She  would  be  out  of 
the  world.  He  would  be  fulfilling  his  destiny  of  sacri- 
fice. For  the  woman  he  loved  and  for  the  man  he 
foved  why  should  he  not  do  this  thing?  What  but 
a  legal  quibble  could  call  it  murder?  Stellamaris's 
words  rang  in  his  ears:  "You  say  you  love  me  like 
that?" 

"Yes,  I  love  you  like  that.  I  love  you  like  that," 
he  cried  below  his  breath  as  he  walked  on. 

He  knew  where  she  lived,  the  name  by  which  she 
passed.  John  had  told  him  many  times.  There  were 
few  things  in  John's  life  he  did  not  know.  He  knew 
of  the  Bences,  of  Mrs.  Oscraft,  the  fluffy-haired  wom- 
an who  lived  in  the  flat  below.  Amelia  Mansions,  he 
was  aware,  were  in  the  Fulham  Road.  But  when  he 
reached  that  thoroughfare,  he  stood  dazed  and  irreso- 
lute, realizing  that  he  did  not  know  which  way  to  turn. 
A  passing  postman  gave  him  the  necessary  informa- 
tion. The  trivial  contact  with  the  commonplace  re- 
stored in  a  measure  his  mental  balance.  He  went  on. 
By  Brompton  Cemetery  he  felt  sick  and  faint  and 
clung  for  a  minute  or  two  to  the  railings.  He  had 
eaten  nothing  since  early  morning,  and  then  only  a 
scrap  of  bacon  and  toast;  he  had  drunk  brandy  and 
wine,  and  he  had  lived  through  the  day  in  which  the 
maddening  stress  of  a  lifetime  had  been  concentrated. 

One  or  two  passers-by  stared  at  him,  for  he  was  as 


310  STELLA    MARIS 

white  as  a  sheet.  A  comfortable,  elderly  woman, 
some  small  shop-keeper's  wife,  addressed  him.  Was 
he  ill?  Could  she  do  anything  for  him?  The  ques- 
tioning was  a  lash.  He  drew  himself  up,  smiled, 
raised  his  hat,  thanked  her  courteously.  It  was  noth- 
ing. He  went  on,  loathing  himself  as  men  do  when 
the  flesh  fails  beneath  the  whip  of  the  spirit. 

He  was  well  now,  his  mind  clear.  He  was  going 
to  the  woman.  He  would  save  those  he  loved.  If  it 
were  necessary  to  kill  her,  he  would  kill  her.  On  that 
point  his  brain  worked  with  startling  clarity.  If  he 
did  not  kill  her,  she  would  be  eventually  killed  by 
John ;  for  John,  he  argued,  could  not  remain  in  igno- 
rance forever.  If  John  killed  her,  he  would  be 
hanged.  Much  better  that  he,  Walter  Herold,  whom 
Stellamaris  did  not  love,  should  be  hanged  than  John 
— much  better.  And  what  the  deuce  did  it  matter  to 
anybody  whether  he  were  hanged  or  not?  He 
laughed  at  the  elementary  logic  of  the  proposition. 
The  solution  of  all  the  infernally  intricate  problems 
of  life  is,  if  people  only  dared  face  it,  one  of  childish 
simplicity.  It  was  laughable.  Walter  Herold  laughed 
aloud  in  the  Fulham  Road. 

It  was  so  easy,  so  uncomplicated.  He  would  see 
her.  He  would  do  what  he  had  to  do.  Then  he  would 
take  a  taxi-cab  to  the  theatre.  He  must  play  to-night. 
Of  course  he  would.  There  was  no  reason  why  he 
should  n't.  Only  he  hoped  that  Leonora  Gurney 
would  n't  worry  him.  He  would  manage  to  avoid  her 
during  that  confounded  wait  in  the  first  act,  when 
she  always  tried  to  get  him  to  talk.  He  would  play 
the  part  all  right.  He  was  a  man  and  not  a  stalk  of 
wet  straw.  After  the  performance  he  would  give  him- 
self up.  No  one  would  be  inconvenienced.  He  would 
ask  the  authorities  to  hurry  on  matters  and  give  him 
a  short  shrift  and  a  long  rope;  but  the  length  of  the 


STELLA    MARIS  311 

rope  did  n't  matter  these  days,  when  they  just  broke 
your  neck.  There  was  no  one  dependent  on  him.  His 
brothers  and  sisters,  many  years  his  seniors, — he  had 
not  seen  them  since  he  was  a  child, — had  all  gone 
after  their  father's  death  to  an  uncle  in  New  Zealand. 
They  were  there  still.  The  mother,  who  had  remained 
with  him,  the  Benjamin,  in  England,  had  died  while 
he  was  at  Cambridge.  He  was  free  from  family-ties. 
And  women  ?  He  was  free,  too.  There  had  only  been 
one  woman  in  his  life,  the  child  of  cloud  and  sea 
foam. 

Stellamaris,  star  of  the  sea,  now  dragged  through 
the  mire  of  mortal  things !  She  should  go  back.  She 
should  go  back  to  her  firmament,  shining  down 
upon,  and  worshipped  by,  the  man  she  loved.  And  he, 
God! — he  should  be  spared  the1  terrifying  agony 
of  it. 

Thus  worked  the  brain  which  Walter  Herold  told 
himself  was  crystal  clear. 

It  was  clear  enough,  however,  to  follow  the  post- 
man's directions.  He  took  the  turning  indicated  and 
found  the  red-brick  block,  with  the  name  "Amelia 
Mansions"  carved  in  stone  over  the  entrance  door. 
The  by-street  seemed  to  be  densely  populated.  He 
went  into  the  entrance-hall  and  mechanically  looked 
at  the  list  of  names.  Mrs.  Rawlings's  name  was  fol- 
lowed by  No.  7.  He  mounted  the  stairs.  On  the 
landing  of  No.  7  there  were  a  couple  of  policemen, 
and  the  flat  door  was  open,  and  the  length  of  the  pas- 
sage was  visible.  Herold  was  about  to  enter  when 
they  stopped  him. 

"You  can't  go  in,  sir." 

"I  want  Mrs.  Rawlings." 

"No  one  can  go  in." 

He  stood  confused,  bewildered.  An  elderly,  buxom 
woman,  with  a  horrified  face,  who  just  then  happened 


3i2  STELLA   MARIS 

to  come  out  of  a  room  near  the  doorway,  saw  him 
and  came  forward. 

"You  are  Mr.  Herold,"  she  asked. 

"Yes;  I  want  to  see  Mrs.  Rawlings." 

"It  's  all  right,  constable,"  she  said  in  a  curiously 
cracked  voice.  "Let  this  gentleman  pass.  Come  in, 
sir.  I  am  Mrs.  Bence." 

He  entered  the  passage.  She  spoke  words  to  him 
the  import  of  which  he  did  not  catch.  His  brain  was 
perplexed  by  the  guard  of  policemen  and  the  open  flat. 
She  led  him  a  short  distance  down  the  passage.  He 
stumbled  over  a  packed  kit-bag.  She  threw  open  a 
door.  He  crossed  the  threshold  of  a  vulgarly  fur- 
nished drawing-room,  the  electric  lights  turned  on  de- 
spite the  daylight  of  the  July  evening.  There  were 
four  figures  in  the  room.  Standing  and  scribbling  in 
note-books  were  two  men,  one  in  the  uniform  of  a 
sergeant  of  police,  the  other  in  a  frock-coat,  obviously 
a  medical  man.  On  the  floor  were  two  women,  both 
dead.  One  was  John  Risca's  wife,  and  the  other  was 
Unity.  And  near  by  them  lay  a  new,  bright  revolver. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

IN  after-time  Herold's  memory  of  that  disastrous 
night  and  the  succeeding  days  was  that  of  a  pe- 
culiarly lucid  nightmare  in  which  he  seemed  to 
have  acted  without  volition  or  consciousness  of  mo- 
tive. He  ate,  dressed,  drove  through  the  streets  on 
unhappy  missions,  gave  orders,  directions,  consoled, 
like  an  automaton,  and  sometimes  slept  exhaustedly. 
So  it  seemed  to  him,  looking  back.  He  spared  John 
the  first  night  of  misery.  The  man  with  his  ban- 
daged head  slept  like  a  log,  and  Herold  did  not  wake 
him.  All  that  could  be  done  he  himself  had  done. 
It  was  better  for  John  to  gather  strength  in  sleep  to 
face  the  tragedy  on  the  morrow.  And  when  the  mor- 
row came,  and  Herold  broke  the  news  to  him,  the  big 
man  gave  way  under  the  shock,  and  became  gentle, 
and  obeyed  Herold  like  a  child.  Thereafter,  for  many 
days,  he  sat  for  the  hour  together  with  his  old  aunt, 
curiously  dependent  on  her;  and  she,  through  her 
deep  affection  for  him,  grew  singularly  silent  and 
practical. 

In  her  unimaginative  placidity  lay  her  strength. 
She  mourned  for  Unity  as  for  her  own  flesh  and 
blood;  but  the  catastrophe  did  not  shake  her  even 
mind,  and  when  John  laid  his  head  in  her  lap  and 
sobbed,  all  that  was  beautiful  in  the  woman  flowed 
through  the  comforting  tips  of  her  helpless  fingers. 

From  Herold  he  learned  the  unsuspected  reason  of 
Unity's  crime  and  sacrifice ;  and  from  Unity,  too,  for 

313 


314  STELLA    MARIS 

a  poor  little  pencil  scrawl  found  in  her  pocket  and  ad- 
dressed to  him  told  him  of  her  love  and  of  her  inten- 
tion to  clear  the  way  for  his  happiness.  And  when 
the  inquest  was  over  and  Unity's  body  was  brought  to 
Kilburn  and  laid  in  its  coffin  in  her  little  room,  he 
watched  by  it  in  dumb  stupor  of  anguish. 

Herold  roused  him  now  and  then.  Action — nomi- 
nal action  at  least — had  to  be  taken  by  him  as  surviv- 
ing protagonist  of  the  tragedy.  The  morning  after 
the  deed  the  newspapers  shrieked  the  news,  giving 
names  in  full,  raking  up  memories  of  the  hideous  case. 
They  dug,  not  deep,  for  motive,  and  found  long-smoul- 
dering vengeance.  Unity  was  blackened.  John  re- 
sponded to  Herold's  lash.  This  must  not  be.  Unity 
must  not  go  to  her  grave  in  public  dishonour;  truth 
must  be  told.  So  at  the  inquest,  John  wild,  uncouth, 
with  great  strips  of  sticking-plaster  on  his  head,  told 
truth,  and  gave  a  romantic  story  to  a  hungry  press. 
It.was  hateful  to  lay  bare  the  inmost  sacredness  and 
the  inmost  suffering  of  his  soul  to  the  world's  cold 
and  curious  gaze,  but  it  had  to  be  done.  Unity's 
name  was  cleared.  When  he  sat  down  by  Herold's 
side,  the  latter  grasped  his  hand,  and  it  was  clammy 
and  cold,  and  he  shook  throughout  his  great  frame. 

Then  Herold,  driven  to  mechanical  action,  as  it 
seemed  to  him  afterward,  by  a  compelling  force, 
dragged  John  to  an  inquiry  into  the  evil  woman's  life. 
It  was  Mrs.  Oscraft,  the  full-blown,  blowzy  book- 
maker's wife,  the  woman's  intimate  associate  for  many 
years,  who  gave  the  necessary  clue.  Horrified  by  the 
discovery  of  the  identity  of  her  friend  and  by  the 
revelation  of  further  iniquities,  she  lost  her  head  when 
the  men  sternly  questioned  her.  She  had  used  her  in- 
timacy with  Mrs.  Risca  to  cover  from  her  own  hus- 
band an  intrigue  of  many  years'  standing.  In  return, 
Mrs.  Risca  had  confessed  to  an  intrigue  of  her  own, 


STELLA   MARIS  315 

and  demanded,  and  readily  obtained,  Mrs.  Oscraft's 
protection.  The  women  worked  together.  They  were 
inseparable  in  their  outgoings  and  incomings,  but 
abroad  each  went  her  separate  way.  That  was  why, 
ignorant  of  the  truth,  Mrs.  Oscraft  had  lied  loyally 
when  John  Risca  had  burst  into  her  flat  long  ago. 
She  had  thought  she  was  merely  shielding  her  fellow- 
sinner  from  the  wrath  of  a  jealous  husband.  Thus 
for  years,  with  her  cunning,  Mrs.  Risca  had'  thrown 
dust  in  the  eyes  both  of  her  friend  and  of  the  feared 
and  hated  wardress  whom  John  had  set  over  her. 
Under  the  double  cloak  she  had  used  her  hours  of 
liberty  to  carry  out  the  set,  relentless  purpose  of  her 
life.  To  spy  on  him  with  exquisite  craft  had  been 
her  secret  passion,  to  strike  when  the  time  came  the 
very  meaning  of  her  criminal  existence. 

"And  for  the  last  two  or  three  years  she  gave  no 
trouble  and  was  as  gentle  as  a  lamb,  so  how  could  I 
suspect?"  Mrs.  Bence  lamented. 

"It  's  all  over,"  said  John,  stupidly;  "it  's  all  over. 
Nothing  matters  now." 

To  Herold,  in  after-time,  the  memories  of  these 
days  were  as  those  of  the  doings  of  another  man  in 
his  outer  semblance.  His  essential  self  had  been  the 
crazy  being  who  had  marched  through  the  mellow 
Kensington  streets  with  fantastic  dreams  of  murder  in 
his  head.  At  the  sight  of  Unity  and  the  woman  lying 
ghastly  on  the  floor  something  seemed  to  snap  in  his 
brain,  and  all  the  cloudy  essence  that  was  he  vanished, 
and  a  perfect  mechanism  took  its  place.  When  John 
with  wearisome  reiteration  said:  "God  bless  you, 
Wallie!  God  knows  what  I  should  have  done  with- 
out you,"  it  was  hard  to  realize  that  he  had  done  any- 
thing deserving  thanks.  He  was  inclined  to  regard 
himself — when  he  had  a  fugitive  moment  to  regard 
himself — with  abhorrence.  He  had  talked;  Unity  had 


3i6  STELLA   MARIS 

acted.  And  deep  down  in  his  soul,  only  once  after- 
wards in  his  life  to  be  confessed,  dwelt  an  awful  re- 
morse for  his  responsibility  in  the  matter  of  Unity's 
death.  But  in  simple  fact  no  man  in  times  of  great 
convulsion  knows  himself.  He  looks  back  on  the  man 
who  acted  and  wonders.  The  man,  surviving  the 
wreck  of  earthquake,  if  he  be  weak,  lies  prone  and 
calls  on  God  and  man  to  help  him;  if  he  be  strong,  he 
devotes  the  intensity  of  his  faculties  to  the  work  of 
rescue,  of  clearing  up  debris,  of  temporary  reconstruc- 
tion, and  has  no  time  for  self-analysis.  It  is  in  reality 
the  essential  man  in  his  vigour  and  courage  and  no- 
bility and  disdain  who  acts,  and  the  bruised  and  shat- 
tered about  him  who  profit  by  his  help  look  rightly 
upon  him  as  a  god. 

It  was  only  after  John  had  visited  the  house  of 
death,  where,  according  to  law,  the  bodies  both  of 
slayer  and  slain  had  to  lie,  and  had  seen  the  pinched, 
common  face,  swathed  in  decent  linen,  of  the  girl 
who  for  his  sake  had  charged  her  soul  with  murder 
and  taken  her  own  life,  and  after  he  had  driven  away, 
stunned  with  grief  and  carrying  with  him,  at  his  feet 
in  the  taxi-cab,  the  useless  kit-bag  packed  by  the  poor 
child  with  Heaven  knows  what  idea  of  its  getting  to 
its  destination,  and  had  staggered  to  the  comfort  of 
the  foolish  old  lady's  outstretched  arms  and  received 
her  benediction,  futilely  spoken,  divinely  unspoken — 
it  was  only  then  that,  raising  haggard  eyes,  all  the 
more  haggard  under  the  brow-reaching  bandage  he 
still  wore,  he  asked  the  question : 

"What  about  Stella?     She  is  bound  to  learn." 

"I  wrote  to  her  last  night,"  said  Herold.  "I  pre- 
pared her  for  the  shock  as  best  I  could." 

A  gleam  of  rational  thought  flitted  across  John 
Risca's  mind. 

"You  remembered  her  at  such  a  time,  with  all  you 


STELLA   MARIS  317 

had  to  do?  You  're  a  wonderful  man,  Wallie.  No 
one  else  would  have  done  it." 

"Are  you  in  a  fit  state  of  mind,"  said  Herold,  "to 
understand  what  has  happened?  I  tried  to  tell  you 
this  morning," — as  he  had  done  fitfully, — "but  it  was 
no  use.  You  grasped  nothing." 

"Go  on  now,"  said  John.     "I  'm  listening." 

So  Herold,  amid  the  fripperies  of  Miss  Lindon's 
drawing-room,  told  the  story  of  his  summons  to  the 
Channel  House  some  time  ago — Good  God! — He 
caught  himself  up  sharply — it  was  only  yesterday! 
and  of  his  talk  with  Stellamaris  in  the  garden,  and 
of  her  encounter  with  the  evil  woman,  and  of  the 
poison  that  had  crept  to  the  roots  of  Stella's  being. 

John  shivered,  and  clenched  impotent  fists.  Stella 
left  alone  on  the  cliff-edge  with  that  murderous  hag! 
Stella's  ears  polluted  by  that  infamous  tale!  If  only 
he  had  known  it!  Why  did  she  hide  it  from  him? 
It  was  well  the  murderess  was  dead,  but,  merciful 
Heaven,  at  what  a  price! 

"Listen,"  said  Herold,  gravely,  checking  his  out- 
burst; and  he  told  of  his  meetings  with  Unity, — it 
was  essential  that  John  should  know, — of  her  almost 
mystical  worship  of  Stellamaris,  of  their  discovery  of 
the  revolver — 

"Poor  child!"  cried  John,  "I  bought  it  soon  after 
I  went  to  Kilburn.  I  took  it  out  the  other  day  and 
played  with  a  temptation  I  knew  I  should  n't  succumb 
to.  I  should  never  have  had  the  pluck." 

Herold  continued,  telling  him  all  he  knew — all  save 
that  of  which  he  stood  self-accused,  and  which  for 
the  present  was  a  matter  between  him  and  his  Maker. 
And  Miss  Lindon,  fondling  on  her  lap  a  wheezy  pug, 
the  successor  to  the  Dandy  of  former  days  who  had 
been  gathered  to  his  fathers  long  ago,  listened  in  placid 
bewilderment  to  the  strange  story  of  love  and  crime. 


3i8  STELLA    MARTS 

"I  'm  sure  I  don't  understand  how  people  think  of 
such  things,  let  alone  do  them,"  she  sighed. 

"You  must  accept  the  fact,  dear  Miss  Lindon," 
said  Herold,  gently. 

"God's  will  be  done,"  she  murmured,  which  in  the 
circumstances  was  as  relevant  a  thing  as  the  poor  lady 
could  have  uttered.  But  John  sat  hunched  up  in  a 
bamboo  chair  that  creaked  under  his  weight,  and 
scarcely  spoke  a  word.  He  felt  very  unimportant  by 
the  side  of  Unity — Unity  with  whose  strong,  passion- 
ate soul  he  had  dwelt  in  blind  ignorance.  And  Unity 
was  dead,  lying  stark  and  white  in  the  alien  house. 

After  a  long  silence  he  roused  himself. 

"You  wrote  to  Stella,  you  said?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Herold. 

"What  will  happen  to  her?" 

"I  don't  know." 

John  groaned.  "If  only  I  had  protected  her  as  I 
ought  to  have  done !  If  only  I  had  protected  both  of 
them!" 

He  relapsed  again  into  silence,  burying  his  face  in 
his  hands.  Presently  Miss  Lindon  put  the  pug  ten- 
derly on  the  ground,  rose,  and  stood  by  his  chair. 

"My  poor  boy,"  she  said,  "do  you  love  her  so 
much?" 

"She  's  dead,"  said  John. 

Herold  shook  him  by  the  shoulder.  "Nonsense, 
man.  Pull  yourself  together." 

John  raised  a  drawn  face. 

"What  did  you  ask?    I  was  thinking  about  Unity." 

THAT  day,  the  day  after  the  tragedy,  Stellamaris  faced 
life,  in  its  nakedness,  stripped,  so  it  appeared  to  her, 
of  every  rag  of  mystery. 

She  had  breakfasted  as  usual  in  her  room,  bathed 
and  dressed,  and  looked  wistfully  over  her  disown- 


STELLA    MARIS  319 

ing  sea.  Then,  as  she  was  preparing1  to  go  down- 
stairs, Morris  had  brought  in  Herold's  letter,  scrib- 
bled so  nervously  and  shakenly  that  at  first  she  was 
at  a  loss  to  decipher  it.  Gradually  it  became  terribly 
clear:  Unity  was  dead;  the  woman  was  dead;  Unity 
had  killed  the  woman  and  then  killed  herself. 

"Details  of  everything  but  the  truth  will  be  given 
in  the  morning  papers,"  Herold  wrote ;  "but  you  must 
know  the  truth  from  the  first — as  I  know  it.  Unity 
has  given  her  life  to  save  those  she  loved — you  and 
John — from  the  woman.  She  has  laid  down  her  life 
for  you.  Never  forget  that  as  long  as  you  live." 

She  sat  for  some  moments  quite  still,  paralyzed  by 
the  new  horror  that  had  sprung  from  this  false, 
flower-decked  earth  to  shake  her  by  the  throat.  The 
world  was  terrifyingly  relentless.  She  read  the  awful 
words  again.  Bit  by  bit  feeling  returned.  Her  flesh 
was  constricted  in  a  cold  and  finely  wrought  net.  She 
grew  faint,  put  her  hand  to  her  brow  and  found  it 
damp.  She  stumbled  to  her  bed  by  the  great  west 
window  and  threw  herself  down.  Constable,  lying  on 
the  hearth-rug,  staggered  to  his  feet  and  thrust  his 
old  head  on  her  bosom  and  regarded  her  with  mourn- 
ful and  inquiring  eyes.  She  caressed  him  mechani- 
cally. Suddenly  she  sprang  up  as  a  swift  memory 
smote  her.  Once  she  lay  there  by  the  window,  and 
the  dog  was  there  by  the  bed,  and  there  by  the  door 
stood  the  ungainly  figure  of  a  girl  of  her  own  age. 
Was  it  possible  that  that  ungainly  child  whom  she 
had  seen  and  talked  to  then,  whom  a  few  weeks  ago 
she  had  kissed,  could  have  committed  this  deed  of 
blood?  She  rose  again  to  her  feet,  pushed  the  old 
dog  aside  blindly,  and  hid  her  eyes  from  the  light  of 
day.  The  girl  was  human,  utterly  human  at  those 
two  meetings.  Of  what  unknown,  devastating  forces 
were  human  beings,  then,  composed? 


320  STELLA    MARIS 

She  took  up  the  letter  again.  "Unity  has  given  her 
life  to  save  those  she  loved — you  and  John — from  the 
woman.  She  has  laid  down  her  life  for  you.  Never 
forget  that  as  long  as  you  live." 

Walter  Herold  said  that.  It  must  be  true.  Through 
all  of  yesterday's  welter  of  misery,  after  he  had  left 
her,  she  had  clung  despairingly  to  him.  There  was 
no  God,  but  there  was  Walter  Herold.  Her  pride  had 
dismissed  him  with  profession  of  disbelief,  but  in  her 
heart  she  had  believed  him.  Not  that  she  had  par- 
doned John  Risca,  not  that  she  had  recovered  her 
faith  in  him,  not  that  she  had  believed  in  Unity.  Her 
virginal  soul,  tainted  by  the  woman,  had  shrunk  from 
thoughts  of  the  pair ;  but  despite  her  fierce  determina- 
tion to  believe  in  neither  God  nor  man,  she  had  been 
compelled  to  believe  in  Herold.  She  had  stood  up 
against  him  and  fought  with  him  and  had  bitten  and 
rent  him,  and  he  had  conquered,  and  she  had  felt 
maddenedly  angered,  triumphantly  glad.  The  whole 
world  could  be  as  false  as  hell,  but  in  it  there  was 
one  clear  spirit  speaking  truth. 

She  went  to  the  southern  window,  rested  her  el- 
bows on  the  sill,  and  pressed  the  finger-tips  of  both 
hands  against  her  forehead.  The  soft  south-west 
wind,  bringing  the  salt  from  the  dancing  sea,  played 
about  her  hair.  Unity  had  laid  down  her  life  to  save 
those  she  loved.  So  had  Christ  done — given  his  life 
for  humanity.  But  Christ  had  not  killed  a  human  be- 
ing, no  matter  how  murderous,  and  had  not  taken  his 
own  life.  No,  no;  she  must  not  mix  up  things  irre- 
concilable. She  faced  the  room  again.  Wrhat  did 
people  do  when  they  killed  ?  What  were  the  common, 
practical  steps  that  they  took  to  gain  their  ends?  Her 
mind  suddenly  grew  vague.  Herold  had  spoken  of 
newspapers.  She  must  see  them;  she  must  know 
everything.  Life  was  deadly  conflict,  and  knowledge 


STELLA   MARIS  321 

the  only  weapon.  For  a  few  seconds  she  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  her  young  bosom  heaving,  her 
dark  eyes  wide  with  the  diamond  glints  in  their  depths. 
Life  was  a  deadly  conflict.  She  would  fight,  she 
would  conquer.  Others  miserably  weaker  than  her- 
self survived.  Pride  and  race  and  splendid  purity  of 
soul  sheathed  her  in  cold  armour.  A  jingle,  separated 
from  context,  came  into  her  mind,  and  in  many  ways 
it  was  a  child's  mind : 

Then  spake  Sir  Thomas  Howard, 
"'Fore  God,  I  am  no  coward." 

"  'Fore  God,  I  am  no  coward,"  she  repeated,  and 
with  her  delicate  head  erect  she  went  out  and  down 
the  stairs  and  entered  the  dining-room. 

There  she  found  Sir  Oliver  and  Lady  Blount  sitting 
at  a  neglected  breakfast.  The  old  faces  strove  piti- 
fully to  smile.  Stella  kissed  them  in  turn,  and  with 
her  hand  lingering  on  the  old  man's  arm,  she  gave 
him  Herold's  letter. 

"Is  it  in  the  newspapers?"  she  asked. 

"What,  what,  my  dear?"  said  Sir  Oliver,  adjusting 
his  glasses  on  his  nose  with  fumbling  fingers. 

She  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  Then  her  eyes 
fell  on  the  morning  papers  lying  on  the  table.  They 
were  folded  so  that  a  great  head-line  stared  hideously. 

"Oh,  darling,  do  n't  read  it — for  Heaven's  sake 
do  n't  read  it,"  cried  Lady  Blount,  clutching  the  nearer 
newspaper. 

But  Stella  took  up  the  other.  "I  must,  dearest," 
she  said  very  gently.  "Walter  has  written  to  me ;  but 
he  could  not  tell  me  everything." 

She  moved  to  the  window  that  overlooked  the  pleas- 
ant garden,  and  with  steady  eyes  read  the  vulgar  and 
soul-withering  report,  while  the  two  old  people,  head 
to  head,  puzzled  out  Herold's  scrawl. 


322  STELLA    MARIS 

When  she  had  finished,  she  laid  the  paper  quietly  at 
the  foot  of  the  table  and  came  and  stood  between 
them,  revolted  by  the  callous  publication  of  names,  al- 
most physically  sickened  by  the  realistic  picture  of  the 
scene,  her  head  whirling.  She  caught  hold  of  the 
back  of  Sir  Oliver's  chair. 

"The  newspaper  lies,"  she  said,  "but  it  does  n't 
know  any  better.  Walter  tells  us  why  she  did  it." 

Sir  Oliver,  elbow  on  table,  held  the  letter  in  his 
shaking  grasp.  It  dropped,  and  his  head  sank  on  his 
hand. 

"It  's  too  horrible!"  he  said  in  a  weak  voice.  "I 
don't  understand  anything  at  all  about  it.  I  don't 
understand  what  Walter  means.  And  all  that  old 
beastly  story  revived.  It 's  damnable !" 

He  looked  quite  broken,  his  querulous  self-asser- 
tion gone.  Lady  Blount,  too,  gave  way,  and  stretched 
out  an  imploring  and  pathetic  arm,  which,  as  Stella 
moved  a  step  or  two  toward  her,  fell  around  the  slim, 
standing  figure.  She  laid  her  cheek  against  Stella  and 
cried  miserably. 

"O  my  darling,  my  precious  one,  if  we  could  only 
spare  you  all  this!  Walter  should  n't  have  written. 
O  my  darling,  what  are  we  to  do!  What  are  we  to 
do!"" 

And  then  Stellamaris  saw  once  more  that  Great 
High  Excellency  and  Most  Exquisite  Auntship,  for  all 
their  love  of  her,  were  of  the  weak  ones  of  the  world, 
and  she  looked  down  with  a  new  and  life-giving  feel- 
ing of  pity  upon  the  bowed  gray  heads.  Once, — was 
it  yesterday  or  weeks  or  months  or  years  ago?  She 
could  not  tell, — but  once,  to  her  later  pain  and  re- 
morse, she  had  commanded,  and  they  had  obeyed ;  now 
she  knew  that  she  had  to  comfort,  protect,  determine. 
And  in  a  bewildering  flash  came  the  revelation  that 
knowledge  was  a  weapon  not  only  to  fight  her  own 


SHE   LOOKED  DOWN   WITH   A   NEW  AND   LIFE-GIVING    FEELING    OF   PITY   UPON  THE   BOWED 
GRAY    HEADS 


STELLA    MARTS  323 

way  through  the  evil  of  the  world,  but  to  defend  the 
defenceless. 

"I  wish  Walter  was  here,"  she  whispered,  her  hand 
against  the  withered,  wet  cheek. 

"Why  Walter,  dear?" 

"He  is  strong  and  true,"  said  Stellamaris. 

"Why  not  John,  darling?" 

Yes,  why  not  John?  Stella  drew  a  sharp  breath. 
Sir  Oliver  saved  her  an  answer. 

"John  has  enough  to  look  to,  poor  chap.  He  has 
got  everything  about  his  ears.  Stella  's  right.  We 
want  Walter.  He  's  young.  He  's  a  good  fellow,  is 
Walter.  I  must  be  getting  old,  my  dear, — "  He 
raised  his  face,  and,  with  a  sudden  forlorn  hope  of 
dignity,  twirled  his  white  moustache, —  "A  year  ago 
I  should  n't  have  wanted  Walter  or  anybody.  It  's 
only  you,  my  child,  that  your  aunt  and  I  are  think- 
ing of.  We  've  tried  to  do  our  duty  by  you,  have  n't 
we,  Julia?  And  God  knows  we  love  you.  You  're 
the  only  thing  in  the  world  left  to  us.  It  is  n't  our 
fault  that  you  are  drawn  into  this  ghastliness.  It 
is  n't,  God  knows  it  is  n't.  Only,  my  dear," — there 
was  a  catch  in  his  voice, — "you  're  not  able  to  bear 
it.  For  us  old  folks  who  have  knocked  about  the 
world — well,  we  're  used  to— to  this  sort  of  thing. 
I  Jve  had  to  send  men  to  the  gallows  in  my  time — • 
once  twenty  men  to  be  shot.  The  paltry  fellows  at 
the  Colonial  Office  did  n't  see  things  as  I  did,  but 
that  's  another  matter.  We  're  used  to  these  things, 
dear;  we  're  hardened — " 

"If  I  have  got  to  live  in  the  world,  dear  Ex- 
cellency," said  Stella,  feeling  that  there  were  some 
sort  of  flood-gates  between  the  tumultuous  flow  of 
her  being  and  the  still  waters  of  pity  in  which  for  the 
moment  her  consciousness  acted,  "it  seems  that  I 
must  get  used  to  it,  like  every  one  else." 


324  STELLA    MARIS 

"But  what  shall  we  do,  darling?"  cried  Lady 
Blount,  clinging  pathetically  to  the  child  of  sea  foam, 
from  whom  all  knowledge  of  the  perilous  world  had 
been  hidden. 

"Anything  but  worry  Walter  to  come  down  here." 

"I  thought  you  wanted  him?" 

"I  do,"  said  Stella,  with  her  hand  on  her  bosom; 
"but  that  is  only  selfishness.  He  is  needed  more  in 
London.  I  think  we  ought  to  go  up  and  see  if  we 
can  help  in  any  way." 

"Go  up  to  London !"  echoed  Sir  Oliver. 

"Yes,  if  you  '11  take  me,  Uncle  dear." 

The  old  man  looked  at  his  wife,  who  looked  help- 
lessly at  him.  Through  the  open  window  came  the 
late,  mellow  notes  of  a  thrush  and  the  sunshine  that 
floodec*  the  summer  garden. 

"I  am  going  to  send  Walter  a  telegram,"  said  Stella, 
moving  gently  away. 

She  left  the  room  with  the  newly  awakened  con- 
sciousness that  she  was  absolute  mistress  of  her  des- 
tiny. Love,  devotion,  service,  anything  she  might 
require  from  the  two  old  people,  were  hers  for  the 
claiming — anything  in  the  world  but  guidance  and 
help.  She  stood  alone  before  the  dragons  of  a  world, 
no  longer  the  vague  Threatening  Land,  but  a  world 
of  fierce  passions  and  bloody  deeds.  Herold's  words 
flamed  before  her :  "Unity  had  given  her  life  for  those 
she  loved."  Had  she,  Stellamaris,  a  spirit  so  much 
weaker  than  Unity's? 

She  advanced  an  eager  step  or  two  along  the  gar- 
den walk,  clenching  her  delicate  fists,  and  the  fiery 
dragons  retreated  backward.  She  could  give,  too,  as 
well  as  Unity,  her  life  if  need  be.  If  that  was  not  re- 
quired, at  least  whatever  could  be  demanded  of  her 
for  those  she  loved.  Again  she  read  the  letter. 
Underlying  it  was  tenderest  anxiety  lest  she  should  be 


STELLA   MARIS  325, 

stricken  down  by  the  ghastly  knowledge.  With  the 
personal  motive,  the  intense  and  omnipotent  motive 
of  her  sex,  unconsciously  dominating  her,  she  mur- 
mured half  articulately : 

"He  thinks  I  'm  a  weak  child.  I  '11  show  him  that 
I  am  a  woman.  He  shall  see  that  I  'm  not  afraid  of 
life." 

So  when  Walter  Herold  went  home  late  that  night, 
— the  theatre  being  out  of  the  question,  he  had  stayed 
at  Kilburn  until  John  had  been  persuaded  to  go  to 
bed, — he  found  a  telegram  from  Stellamaris. 

"Coming  to  London  to  see  if  I  can  be  of  any  help. 
My  dear  love  to  John  in  his  terrible  trouble.  Tell  me 
when  I  had  better  come." 

The  next  day,  when  they  met  before  the  inquest, 
he  showed  the  telegram  to  John,  who,  after  glancing 
at  it,  thrust  it  back  into  his  hand  with  a  deprecating 
gesture. 

"No;  let  her  stay  there.  What  is  she  to  do  in  this 
wilderness  of  horror?" 

"I  have  already  written,"  said  Herold. 

"To  keep  away?" 

"To  come." 

"You  know  best,"  said  John,  hopelessly.  "At  any 
rate  the  news  has  n't  killed  her.  I  feared  it  would. 
I  had  long  letters  from  Oliver  and  Julia  this 
morning." 

"What  do  they  say?" 

John  put  his  hand  to  his  head.     "I  forget,"  said  he. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

OUTSIDE  the  house  in  Kilburn  were  stationed  a 
hearse  and  two  carriages,  stared  at  by  a  knot 
of  idlers.  Within  was  felt  the  pervasive  pres- 
ence of  a  noiselessly  moving,  black-attired  man  of 
oiled  tongue.  Up-stairs  in  the  little  room  rested  on 
its  trestles  the  flower-covered  coffin  wherein  all  that 
remained  of  Unity  lay.  The  blinds  of  the  gimcrack 
drawing-room  were  lowered,  and  the  company  sat 
waiting — John,  Miss  Lindon,  and  Herold,  Sir  Oliver, 
Lady  Blount,  and  Stellamaris. 

Although  Stella  had  been  in  London  for  a  day  or 
two,  this  was  the  first  time  that  John  had  seen  her 
since  the  riotous  June  day  when  he  had  waved  fare- 
well to  the  train  carrying  her  back  to  Southcliff.  He 
had  gone  to  the  front  gate  to  meet  her  in  his  ill-fitting, 
outgrown  frock-coat,  sticking-plaster  still  hiding  the 
wounds  on  his  scalp,  and  his  heavy  face  white  and 
drawn.  She,  in  her  black  dress,  looked  a  startling 
lily  enveloped  by  night;  her  great  eyes  had  softened 
from  diamond  into  starshine.  Behind  her  came  the 
old  people,  attendant  ghosts.  John  folded  her  hand 
in  his. 

"Stella  dear,  how  good  of  you  to  come !" 

She  said  in  a  low  voice : 

"It  is  to  ask  forgiveness  from  you  and  her." 

He  bowed  over  her  hand.  She  passed  into  the 
house,  where  Miss  Lindon  received  her. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  holding  Stella's  hand,  "I 
326 


STELLA   MARIS  327 

think  our  poor  darling  will  go  to  her  grave  very  happy. 
She  was  always  talking  of  you,  ever  since  she  came 
to  live  here,  and  if  you  wonder  what  has  become  of 
the  beautiful  lilies  you  sent,  it  's  because  I  have  put 
them  inside  with  her,  knowing  that  there  's  where  she 
would  wish  them  to  be.  And  now  you  've  come  your- 
self, and  I  'm  sure  she  would  n't  ask  for  more." 

The  weak  mouth,  set  in  the  full,  foolish  face 
crowned  with  white  hair,  worked  dolorously.  Stella, 
with  a  sudden  movement,  threw  her  arm  round  her 
neck  and  broke  into  uncontrollable  sobbing.  A  soul 
pure  and  beautiful  beyond  question  spoke  to  Stella- 
maris  in  simple  words  and  in  silly  yet  exquisite  senti- 
ment. She  clung  very  close, — why,  the  unsuspecting 
and  innocent  lady  never  guessed, — but  it  made  her 
broad  bosom  swell  with  an  emotion  hitherto  unknown 
to  have  a  girl  lay  her  head  there  and  sob  and  seem  to 
find  comfort;  and,  as  she  clung,  the  lingering  poison 
of  the  evil  woman  melted  forever  from  Stella's  heart, 
^and  she  knew  that  the  place  whereon  she  stood,  where 
Unity  and  she  had  talked,  that  gimcrack,  tawdry, 
bamboo  drawing-room,  was  holy  ground. 

She  had  come,  poor  child,  full  of  her  fierce  and 
jealous  maiden  pride — she  was  only  twenty,  and  life 
had  been  revealed  to  her  of  late  as  a  tumultuous  con- 
flict of  men  with  devils, — she  had  come  highly 
wrought  for  battles  with  the  Apollyons  that  straddled 
across  the  path;  she  had  come  with  high  hopes  of 
bringing  help  to  the  faint-hearted,  solace  to  the  af- 
flicted, of  proving  to  her  tiny  world  that  she  was  the 
help-giver  instead  of  the  help-seeker ;  she  had  come  on 
the  wings  of  conquest;  and  she  fluttered  down  like  a 
tired  bird  to  the  surrender  of  herself  on  the  bosom 
of  the  simplest  and,  in  the  eyes  of  men,  the  least  im- 
portant creature  on  God's  earth. 

She  drew  gently  away  and  dried  her  eyes,  and  while 


328  STELLA    MARIS 

Miss  Lindon  spoke  a  few  words  to  Lady  Blount,  she 
went  somewhat  shyly  up  to  John. 

"You  should  have  let  me  know  Miss  Lindon  long 
ago,"  she  said. 

"I  should  have  done  many  things  long  ago,"  he 
replied.  "But  I  myself  have  known  my  aunt  only  the 
last  few  days." 

She  regarded  him  somewhat  incredulously. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "it  's  true.  The  last  few  days  have 
taught  me  all  kinds  of  things.  I  never  knew  what 
she  was" — he  made  a  vague  gesture — "until  it  was 
too  late.  I  think,  Stella  dear,  I  have  gone  through 
life  with  my  heart  shut." 

"Except  to  me,"  said  Stellamaris. 

"That  's  different,"  he  said,  with  a  turn  of  his  great 
shoulders. 

He  left  her  abruptly  and  joined  the  group  of  the 
three  elders  by  the  window.  She  came  to  Herold,  who 
had  been  standing  with  his  back  against  the  empty 
fire-place. 

"You  must  be  very  tired." 

He  saw  her  brows  knit  in  their  familiar  little  fairy 
wrinkles  as  she  anxiously  scanned  his  face.  Indeed, 
he  was  very  weary,  and  his  eyes  and  cheeks  showed  it. 

"There  has  been  a  lot  not  only  to  do,  but  to  feel  of 
late,"  he  said. 

She  put  out  a  timid  hand  and  touched  his  sleeve. 

"You  must  n't  do  and  feel  too  much,  or  you  '11 
break  down." 

"Why  should  I,  if  you  have  n't?"  he  asked  with  a 
faint  smile. 

"I  think  it  cowardly  to  break  down  when  one  ought 
to  be  strong,"  she  said. 

"Are  you  afraid  of  my  being  a  coward,  Stella?" 

She  uttered  a  little  cry,  and  her  touch  became  a 
grasp. 


STELLA   MARIS  329 

"You!  Oh,  no!  You?  You  Ve  been  strong. 
There  's  no  need  for  you  to  do  any  more.  You  Ve 

got  to  live  your  own  life  and  not  that  of  other  peo- 

_i  _     j> 

pie— 

"The  only  life  left  to  me,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"is  that  of  those  dear  to  me." 

John  lumbered  up  gloomily.  "You  must  persuade 
him  to  take  a  rest,  Stella.  He  has  been  driving  him- 
self to  death."  He  laid  a  heavy  hand  on  his  friend. 
"God  knows  what  I  should  have  done  without  him 
all  this  time.  Wait,"  he  said  suddenly,  with  the  other 
hand  uplifted. 

And  all  were  silent  when  to  a  scuffle  of  feet  suc- 
ceeded a  measured  tramp  of  steps  descending  the 
stairs.  The  bearers  passed  along  the  passage  by  the 
door  of  the  drawing-room.  Unity  was  going  forth 
on  her  last  journey  through  the  familiar  Kilburn 
streets. 

The  little  crowd  on  the  pavement  had  swelled.  The 
case  and  all  about  it  had  been  manna  to  hungry  July 
reporters,  and  all  the  world  knew  of  Unity  and  judged 
her  this  way  and  that,  according  to  individual  preju- 
dice. But  the  male  part  of  the  crowd  uncovered  as 
the  coffin  and  afterward  the  little  group  of  mourners 
passed  through.  John  and  Miss  Lindon  and  Lady 
Blount  went  in  the  first  carriage;  Stella,  Sir  Oliver, 
and  Herold  in  the  second.  Sir  Oliver,  as  is  the  way 
of  Sir  Olivers  all  the  world  over,  spoke  of  funerals 
he  had  attended  in  years  and  latitudes  both  remote. 
Poor  Roddy  Greenwood — best  fellow  that  ever  lived 
—it  was  in  Berbice,  Demerara — God  bless  his  soul,  it 
was  in  '68 — he  had  left  him  at  six  in  the  morning 
after  a  night's  loo — good  game  loo;  no  one  ever 
played  it  these  days — and  he  had  followed  him  to  his 
grave  that  day  before  sunset.  Then  there  was 
Freddy  Nicol — they  brought  it  in  accidental  because 


330  STELLA    MARIS 

he  was  cleaning  his  gun — there  were  the  rags  and 
oil  and  things  about  him;  but  it  was  odd,  devilish 
odd,  that  it  should  have  happened  the  day  after  Kitty 
Green  married  that  fellow  What  's-his-name  ?  Tut ! 
tut!  he  would  remember  it  in  a  minute.  Now, 
what  the  Dickens  was  the  name  of  the  fellow  Kitty 
Green  married?  But  as  Kitty  Green  and  her  obscure 
and  unremembered  spouse  were  young  in  the  days 
when  Sir  Oliver  was  young,  and  at  the  best  and  hap- 
piest were  both  wrinkled,  uninteresting  ancients,  the 
baffling  question  did  not  stir  the  pulses  of  his  hearers. 

"Anyhow,"  said  Sir  Oliver,  summing  up,  "death 
is  a  devilish  funny  business.  I  've  seen  lots  of  it." 

"And  you  who  have  seen  so  much  of  it,  dear,"  said 
Stellamaris,  very  seriously,  "what  do  you  think  of 
death?" 

"I  've  told  you,  my  child;  I  've  told  you.  It  's 
devilish  funny — odd — here  to-day  and  gone  to-mor- 
row. Devilish  funny." 

They  arrived  at  the  cemetery.  In  the  bare  mortu- 
ary chapel  Stella  knelt  and  heard  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life  the  beautiful  words  of  the  service  for  the 
burial  of  the  dead.  And  there  in  front  of  her,  cov- 
ered with  poor,  vain  flowers,  was  the  coffin  containing 
the  clay  of  one  whom  man  with  his  opportunist  laws 
against  murder  and  self -slaughter  was  powerless  to 
judge.  At  the  appointed  time  they  went  out  into  the 
summer  air  and  walked  in  forlorn  procession  behind 
the  hearse,  through  the  startling  city  in  whose  tene- 
ments of  stone  and  marble  no  mortal  could  dwell ;  in 
which  there  was  no  fevered  strife  as  in  the  cities  of 
men;  in  which  all  the  inhabitants  slept  far  beneath 
their  stately  domes  or  humble  monoliths,  at  peace  with 
mankind,  themselves,  and  God.  And  green  grass  grew 
between  the  graves,  and  sweet  flowers  bloomed  and 
seemed  to  say,  "Why  weep,  since  we  are  here?"  But 


STELLA   MARIS  331 

for  the  faint  grinding  of  the  hearse  wheels  on  the 
gravelled  path  and  the  steps  of  the  followers  all  was 
still.  Stellamaris  clung  to  Herold's  arm. 

"I  can't  believe  they  are  all  dead,"  she  whispered. 
"The  whole  place  seems  alive.  I  think  they  are  wait- 
ing for  Unity.  They  will  take  her  by  the  hand  and 
make  her  one  of  themselves." 

"And  bow  down  before  her,"  said  Herold.  "It  is 
only  the  dead  that  know  the  great  souls  that  pass 
from  the  earth." 

They  reached  the  graveside.  The  surpliced  chap- 
lain stood  a  pace  or  two  apart.  The  dismal  men  in 
black  deposited  the  coffin  by  the  yellow,  upturned 
earth.  The  group  of  six  gathered  close  together. 
The  July  sunshine  streamed  down,  casting  a  queer  pro- 
jection of  shadow  from  the  coffin-end. 

"Man,  that  is  born  of  a  woman,  hath  but  a  short 
time  to  live,  and  is  full  of  misery.  He  cometh  up, 
and  is  cut  down,  like  a  flower;  he  fleeth  as  it  were  a 
shadow,  and  never  continueth  in  one  stay." 

Stella  heard  the  chaplain's  voice  as  in  a  dream.  The 
rattle  of  the  earth  on  the  coffin-lid — "Earth  to  earth, 
ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust" — roused  her  with  a 
shock.  Below,  deep  in  the  grave,  lay  Unity — Unity, 
who  had  taken  a  human  life,  and  had  taken  her  own 
for  the  sake  of  those  she  loved ;  Unity,  who  in  the  ap- 
proach to  her  murderous  and  suicidal  end  was  all  but 
unfathomable  to  her;  Unity,  whom  she  had  read  and 
thought  enough  to  know  to  be  condemned  by  the  gen- 
eral judgment  of  mankind.  There,  in  that  oak  coffin, 
lay  all  that  remained  of  the  common  little  girl,  with 
the  lilies  she  herself  had  sent  on  her  bosom.  The  lilies 
she  had  seen,  pure  white,  with  their  pistils  of  golden 
hope ;  the  dead  white  face  she  had  not  seen.  Yet  her 
lilies  were  looking  into  the  dead  face,  and  the  dead 
face  was  near  the  lilies,  down  there,  underneath  the 


332  STELLA    MARIS 

baffling,  oaken  coffin-lid.  .  .  .  She  became  aware  of 
words  sharp  and  clear  cutting  the  still  air. 

"Who  shall  change  our  vile  body  that  it  may  be 
like  unto  his  glorious  body;  according  to  the  mighty 
working  whereby  he  is  able  to  subdue  all  things  to 
Himself.  ...  I  heard  a  voice  from  heaven,  saying 
unto  me,  Write,  From  henceforth  blessed  are  the  dead 
which  die  in  the  Lord:  even  so  saith  the  Spirit;  for 
they  rest  from  their  labours." 

Stellamaris  stood  tense  until  the  end.  A  great  peace 
had  fallen  upon  her.  "Blessed  are  those  that  die  in 
the  Lord."  The  simple  words  held  a  mystic  signifi- 
cance. They  reiterated  themselves  in  her  brain. 
Young,  emotional,  inexperienced,  overwhelmed  by  the 
shattering  collapse  of  the  exquisite,  cloud-capped  tow- 
ers of  her  faith,  she  found  in  them  an  unquestioned 
truth.  By  that  grave-side,  in  the  sacred  presence  of 
the  dead,  not  only  of  "the  dear  sister  here  departed," 
but  of  the  inhabitants  of  all  the  gleaming  stone  and 
marble  tenements  around,  there  could  be  no  lying; 
such  was  the  unargued  conviction  of  her  candid  soul. 
A  voice,  coming  not  from  the  commonplace,  white- 
robed  man,  but  from  the  blue  vault  of  heaven,  pro- 
claimed that  Unity  had  died  in  the  Lord  and  that  she 
was  blessed.  The  message  was  one  of  unutterable 
consolation.  Unity  had  died  in  the  Lord.  The  com- 
forting acceptance  of  the  message  indicated  the  resto- 
ration of  Stella's  faith  in  God. 

The  mind  of  the  child-woman  is  a  warp  of  inno- 
cence shot  with  the  woof  of  knowledge,  and  the  re- 
sultant fabric  is  a  thing  no  man  born  can  seize  and  put 
upon  canvas,  and,  for  the  matter  of  that,  no  woman, 
when  she  has  ceased  to  be  a  child. 

John  stood  for  a  while  looking  down  into  the  grave, 
and  gently  dropped  a  wreath  which  he  held  in  his 
hand.  Then  he  turned  gloomily  away,  and  the  others 


STELLA   MARIS  .      333 

followed  him,  and  the  grave-diggers'  spadefuls  of 
earth  rattled  down  on  the  coffin  with  a  sound  of 
dreadful  finality. 

STELLA'S  heart  had  softened  toward  John.  Herold 
had  told  her  how  he  had  nearly  come  by  his  death  on 
the  rocks  below  the  Channel  House.  It  had  moved 
her  to  the  depths.  And  now  she  saw  that  he  was 
bowed  down  with  grief  for  Unity.  All  resentment 
against  him  had  died.  She  recovered  her  faith,  not 
perhaps  in  the  wonder  of  the  Great  High  Belovedest 
of  the  past,  but  in  the  integrity  of  the  suffering  man. 
When  they  reached  and  had  re-entered  the  house,  she 
took  an  opportunity  of  being  alone  with  him.  The 
two  elder  ladies  were  up-stairs,  and  Walter  and  Sir 
Oliver  had  gone  out  to  smoke  in  the  little  front  gar- 
den. Then  she  said  with  shy  gentleness: 

"This  must  be  very  desolate  for  you,  dear.  Won't 
Miss  Lindon  and  you  come  down  with  us  to  South- 
cliff?  I  have  fallen  in  love  with  her.  I  wonder 
whether  I  dare  ask  her.  The  sea  air  would  do  her 
good." 

"She  would  be  delighted,  I  'm  sure ;  but  would  you 
like  me  to  come,  too?"  he  said,  bending  his  heavy 
brows. 

"Of  course,"  replied  Stella.  She  flushed  slightly 
and  lowered  her  eyes. 

"I  'm  afraid  I  'm  not  a  very  gay  companion,  Stella. 
In  fact,  I  don't  think  I  ever  was  one — except  in  the 
days  when  I  used  to  tell  you  fairy-tales  about  the 
palace — " 

"Oh,  don't !"  She  could  not  restrain  the  quick  lit- 
tle cry  and  gesture.  "We  must  n't  talk  about  that  any 
more.  We  've  got  the  future  to  think  of.  Recon- 
struction— is  n't  that  what  they  call  it?  We  have  got 
to  look  at  things  as  they  are,  and  laugh  sometimes." 


334  STELLA    MARIS 

"I  feel,"  said  he,  "as  though  I  could  never  laugh 
again." 

"Yet  Unity  meant  to  make  you  happy  and  not  mis- 
erable," said  Stella. 

"I  know,"  said  he,  "and  that  's  the  devil  of  it." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  his  hands  thrust  deep  in 
his  trousers'  pockets,  and  his  heel  on  the  fender.  At 
last  he  said :  "It  would  be  the  best  thing  in  the  world 
for  the  dear  old  lady.  And  God  knows  it  will  be 
good  for  me.  So  if  you  '11  have  us  for  a  week  or 
two,  we  '11  be  glad  to  get  away  from  here." 

"I  '11  ask  Miss  Lindon  when  she  comes  down." 

And  Miss  Lindon,  coming  down  soon  afterwards 
with  Lady  Blount,  received  and  accepted  the  invita- 
tion. Sir  Oliver,  summoned  from  the  garden,  ex- 
pressed his  approval. 

"My  boy,"  said  he,  "we  've  been  perfectly  wretched 
without  you.  Make  him  put  in  a  long  time  with  us, 
Miss  Lindon.  We  three  old  folks  will  join  forces." 

Stella  slipped  out  by  the  front  door  and  stood  by 
Herold,  who  was  leaning  over  the  gate.  Of  course  he 
too  must  come  to  the  Channel  House.  He  smiled 
rather  wearily  and  shook  his  head. 

"Not  just  now,  dear,"  said  he.  "I  have  a  week's 
business  to  do  in  London,  settling  my  autumn  arrange- 
ments— I  'm  going  into  management,  you  know — and 
then  I  must  run  away  for  a  bit — abroad  somewhere, 
a  little  mild  climbing  in  Switzerland,  perhaps." 

Stella's  face  fell.  "Going  abroad?"  she  echoed. 
"For  how  long?" 

"A  month  or  so,  if  I  can  manage  it.  I  want  a  rest 
rather  badly." 

"Of  course  you  do ;  but  I  was  hoping,"  she  faltered, 
"that  you  could  find  rest  at  Southcliff." 

"It  's  good  of  you,  dear,"  said  he,  "to  think  of  me. 
For  Heaven  knows  how  many  years  I  've  looked  upon 


STELLA   MARIS  335 

the  Channel  House  as  a  second  home ;  you  can  never 
realize  what  it  has  meant  to  me.  But  I  need  a  com- 
plete change,  a  sort  of  medicine  I  must  take,  no  mat- 
ter how  nasty  it  may  be.  Besides,"  he  added  with  a 
smile,  "you  will  have  John  now." 

"John  is  John,  and  you  are  you,"  said  Stella.  There 
was  a  little  pause.  Then  after  a  glance  at  his  tired 
face,  she  said  in  a  low  voice :  "You  're  right,  Walter ; 
you  must  go  away  and  get  strong  again.  I  spoke  very 
selfishly.  I  've  not  been  accustomed  to  think  much 
of  other  people." 

"Stellamaris  dear,"  he  said,  "if  I  thought  I  could 
serve  you  by  staying,  I  would  stay.  But  there  's  noth- 
ing for  me  to  do,  is  there?  The — the  what  shall  I 
say — the  veil  between  John  and  you  has  been  cut  in 
twain,  as  it  were,  by  a  flaming  sword.  Perhaps  Unity 
did  it.  But  there  's  no  veil  now.  The  only  thing  that 
has  to  be  done  is  to  bring  back  the  sunshine  into 
John's  life.  That  's  for  you  to  do,  not  for  me." 

She  looked  at  him  queerly.  Her  face  was  so  white, 
her  dress  so  black.  The  only  gleam  about  her  was  in 
her  eyes. 

"I  know  that,"  she  said.  "But  who  is  going  to 
bring  back  the  sunshine  into  your  life?" 

He  leaned  against  the  wooden  gate  and  gripped  the 
top  bar  tight.  What  did  she  mean?  Was  she  a 
woman  or,  after  all,  only  the  old  fancied  child  of  sea- 
foam  and  cloud? 

"When  I  can  eat  like  a  pig  and  sleep  like  a  dog," 
he  said  lightly,  "and  feel  physically  fit,  I  shall  be  all 
right."  He  smiled,  and  took  her  black-gloved  hand. 
"And  when  I  see  the  roses  in  your  cheeks  and  hear 
you  laugh  as  you  used  to  laugh — that  fascinating  lit- 
tle laugh  like  a  peal  of  low  silver  bells — that  I  '11  be 
the  Princess  Stellamaris's  court  jester  again." 

She  smiled  wanly.     "You  were  never  court  jester; 


336  STELLA   MARTS 

you  were  Great  High  Favourite."  She  sighed.  "How 
far  off  those  childish  days  are !" 

"They  '11  return  as  soon  as  you  're  happy." 

"Life  is  too  full  of  pain  for  me  to  find  happiness  in 
superficial  things,"  said  Stella. 

For  all  his  wretchedness  he  could  have  laughed, 
with  a  man's  sweet  pity,  at  the  tone  of  conviction  in 
her  philosophic  but  childish  utterance. 

"You  must  look  for  it  and  find  it  in  the  deep  things," 
said  he. 

She  made  no  reply,  but  stood  thoughtfully  by  his 
side,  and  drew  with  her  fingers  little  lines  in  the  sum- 
mer dust  on  the  upper  surface  of  the  bar  of  the  gate. 

"There  's  something  silly  I  want  to  say  to  you, 
Walter,"  she  murmured  at  last,  "and  I  don't  quite 
know  how  to  say  it.  It  's  about  the  sea.  I  think 
you  can  understand.  You  always  used  to.  Our  long 
talks — you  remember?  Since  all  this  has  happened, 
the  sea  seems  to  have  no  meaning  for  me." 

"It  will  all  come  back,  dear,"  said  Herold,  "with 
your  faith  in  God  and  the  essential  beauty  of  the 
world." 

"But  what  is  the  essential  beauty  of  the  world?" 

"My  dear,"  he  laughed,  "you  must  n't  ask  a  poor 
man  such  conundrums  and  expect  an  instantaneous 
answer.  I  should  say  roughly  it  was  strength  and 
sacrifice  and  love."  He  took  a  cigarette  from  his  case 
and  lit  it.  "You  '11  find  the  comfort  of  the  sea  again. 
I  think  it  will  have  quite  a  new  meaning  for  you,  a 
deeper  meaning,  when  you  sit  by  it  with  the  man 
whom  you  love  and  who  loves  you,  as  you  know  he 
loves  you,  and  all  the  past  has  become  sacred,  and 
there  's  no  longer  a  shadow  between  you." 

"Are  you  sure  ?" 

"Quite  sure.  You  see,  Stellamaris  dear,"  he  added 
after  a  second  or  two,  "you  don't  need  me  any  longer. 


STELLA   MARIS  337 

Your  happiness,  as  well  as  John's  happiness,  is  in 
your  own  hands.  I  can  go  away  with  an  easy  mind. 
And  when  I  come  back — " 

"Yes?     And  when  you  come  back?" 

Pain  started  through  his  eyes.  When  he  came 
back?  What  would  be  left  for  him?  His  art,  his 
ambitions?  What  were  they?  A  child's  vain  toys 
cumbering  his  feet.  His  soul  was  set  on  the  slip  of 
pale  girlhood,  startlingly  black  and  white,  with  her 
mass  of  soft  hair  beneath  the  plain,  black  hat,  and  her 
great  pools  of  eyes,  no  longer  agates  or  diamonds,  but 
aglow  with  remote  flames,  who,  in  poor  common  earth- 
liness,  stood  by  his  side,  but  in  maddening  reality  was 
pinnacled  on  inaccessible  heights  by  the  love  between 
her  and  the  man  they  both  loved.  He  felt  that  the 
pure  had  an  unsuspected  power  of  torture. 

"When  I  come  back  ?  Well — "  he  broke  off  lamely. 
And  they  looked  at  each  other  without  speaking  until 
they  became  aware  of  a  human  presence.  They 
turned  and  saw  John,  his  huge  bulk  in  the  frame  of 
the  doorway,  watching  them  dully  beneath  his  heavy 
brows. 

AT  the  Channel  House  Stella's  health  began  to  mend. 
The  black  shadows  disappeared  from  beneath  her 
eyes,  and  her  lips  caught  the  lost  trick  of  a  smile.  She 
no  longer  wandered  desolate  about  house  and  garden, 
but  sought  the  companionship  of  those  about  her.  The 
old  folks  discussed  and  wrangled  over  the  change. 

"One  would  have  thought,"  said  Lady  Blount,  "that 
this  terrible  affair  would  have  crushed  her  alto- 
gether." 

"Any  one  who  did  n't  know  her  might  have  thought 
so,"  replied  Sir  Oliver;  "but  I  've  watched  her.  I 
sized  her  up  long  ago.  It  's  astonishing  how  little 
you  know  of  her,  Julia.  She  has  lots  of  pluck — the 


338  STELLA    MARIS 

right  stuff  in  her.  And  now  John  's  free  and  he  's 
down  here.  What  more  can  she  want?" 

"Poor  fellow!  He  does  n't  seem  to  be  much  the 
happier  for  it." 

"You  don't  expect  him  to  go  about  grinning  as  if 
nothing  had  happened,  do  you?"  said  Sir  Oliver. 
"Can't  you  understand  that  the  man  has  had  a  devil 
of  a  shock?  He  '11  get  over  it  one  of  these  days." 

"I  don't  want  him  to  grin ;  but  I  'd  like  him  to  look 
a  little  more  cheerful,"  said  Lady  Blount. 

But  cheerfulness  and  John  Risca  were  strangers. 
Even  when  he  and  Stellamaris  were  alone  together, 
looking  at  the  moonlit  sea  from  the  terrace  outside 
the  drawing-room  windows,  or  in  the  sunshine  of  the 
sweet  cliff  garden,  the  cloud  did  not  lift  from  his 
brow.  Unless  they  talked  of  Unity, — and  it  relieved 
his  heart  to  do  so,  and  Stellamaris  loved  to  listen  to 
the  brave  little  chronicles  of  her  life, — long  silences 
marked  their  intercourse.  To  get  back  to  the  old 
plane  was  impossible.  They  could  find  no  new  one 
on  which  to  meet.  She  gave  him  all  her  pity,  for  he 
was  a  man  who  had  suffered  greatly,  and  in  a  way  it 
was  she  herself  who  had  brought  the  suffering  on  him. 
Her  heart  ached  to  say  or  do  something  that  would 
rekindle  the  old  light  in  his  rugged  face;  but  an  un- 
conquerable shyness  held  her  back.  If  he  had  thrown 
his  great  arm  around  her  and  held  her  tight  and  ut- 
tered broken  words  of  love,  pity  would  have  flamed 
passionate  in  surrender.  If  he  had  pleaded  for  com- 
fort, pity  would  have  melted  warm  over  his  soul.  But 
he  made  no  appeal.  Both  were  burningly  aware  that 
Unity  had  died  so  that  they  could  be  free,  no  barrier 
between  them.  Yet  barrier  there  seemed  to  be,  invis- 
ible, inscrutable. 

Once  Sir  Oliver,  who  had  joined  them  in  the  gar- 
den, asked: 


STELLA   MARIS  339 

"What  are  your  plans  for  the  future,  my  boy?" 

"Plans?  I  have  none.  Just  the  same  old  round  of 
work." 

"I  mean  your  domestic  arrangements." 

"I  '11  go  on  living  with  my  old  aunt.  We  're  a 
queer  couple,  I  suppose,  but  we  understand  each 
other." 

"Humph!"  grunted  Sir  Oliver,  and  he  went  away 
to  tie  up  a  drooping  rose. 

They  walked  on  in  dead  silence,  which  was  broken 
at  last  by  John,  who  made  a  remark  as  to  Constable's 
growing  infirmities. 

So  the  visit  came  to  an  end  without  a  word  having 
been  said,  and  John  went  back  to  his  desolate  house, 
physically  rested  and  able  to  take  up  the  routine  of  his 
working  life.  Herold  in  Switzerland  wrote  letters 
about  snows  and  glaciers  and  crystal  air.  The  calm 
tenor  of  existence  was  resumed  at  the  Channel  House. 
Incidentally  Stella  found  an  occupation.  Old  Dr. 
Ransome,  in  casual  talk,  mentioned  a  case  of  great 
poverty  and  sickness  in  the  village.  Stella,  followed 
by  Morris  bearing  baskets  of  luxuries,  presented  her- 
self at  the  poor  house  in  the  character  of  Lady  Boun- 
tiful. At  the  sight  that  met  her  eyes  she  wept  and 
went  away  sorrowful,  and  then  it  dawned  upon  her 
inexperienced  soul  that  gifts  costing  her  nothing,  al- 
though they  had  their  use,  might  be  supplemented  by 
something  vastly  more  efficacious.  She  consulted  the 
hard-worked  district  nurse,  and,  visiting  the  house 
again,  learned  how  to  tend  the  sick  woman  and  wash 
the  babies  and  bring  cleanliness  and  air  and  comfort 
into  the  miserable  place.  And  having  made  in  this 
way  the  discovery  that  all  through  her  life  she  had 
accepted  service  from  all  and  sundry  and  had  never 
done  a  hand's  turn  for  anybody,  she  plunged  with 
young  shame  and  enthusiasm  into  the  new  work. 


340  STELLA    MARIS 

Afraid  lest  convalescence  on  the  part  of  the  patient 
would  throw  her  back  into  idleness,  she  ingenuously 
asked  the  nurse  if  there  were  other  poor  people  in 
Southcliff  who  needed  help.  The  nurse  smiled.  Even 
at  Southcliff  there  was  enough  work  among  the  poor 
and  needy  for  every  day  in  the  week  the  whole  year 
round. 

"I  'm  glad,"  said  Stellamaris.  Then  she  checked 
herself.  "No,  I  can't  be.  I  'm  dreadfully  sorry." 
The  little  lines  of  complexity  knit  themselves  on  her 
brow.  "It  's  a  confusing  world,  is  n't  it?" 

The  state  of  mind  of  Stellamaris  at  this  period  may 
be  best  described  as  one  of  suspended  judgment.  It 
was  a  confusing  world.  She  could  not  pronounce  a 
more  definite  opinion.  The  Land  of  Illusion  was  a 
lost  Atlantis  of  which  not  a  speck  remained.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  world  was  no  longer  the  mere  abode 
of  sin  and  ugliness  and  horror  to  which  she  had  grad- 
ually awakened.  Unity  had  taught  her  that.  What, 
then,  was  this  mysterious  complication  of  life  in  which 
she  found  herself  involved?  It  no  longer  frightened 
her.  It  interested  her  curiously. 

"Excellency  dear,"  she  said  one  day,  "are  there  any 
books  about  life?" 

He  stared  at  her,  covering  his  non-comprehension 
with  the  usual  military  twirl  of  his  moustache. 

"Millions.     What  kind  of  life?" 

"Life  itself.    The  meaning  of  it." 

"Religious  books?  I  'm  afraid  they  're  not  in  my 
line,  my  dear." 

"I  don't  think  it  's  religious  books  I  want,"  said 
Stella. 

"Philosophy,  then.  Kant,  Schopenhauer, — um — 
er," — he  hooked  a  name  from  the  depths  of  his  mem- 
ory— "Bain,  and  all  those  fellows.  I  could  never 
make  head  or  tail  of  them  myself,  so  I  don't  suppose 
you  could,  dear." 


STELLA   MARIS  341 

"Did  you  say  Kant?  I  think  I  've  seen  a  book  of 
his  in  the  library." 

She  pulled  down  a  dusty  volume  of  the  "Critique 
of  Pure  Reason"  from  a  top  shelf  and  puzzled  her 
young  brains  over  it.  It  seemed  to  be  dealing  with 
vital  questions,  but,  like  Sir  Oliver,  she  was  hope- 
lessly befogged.  She  asked  the  old  doctor.  He  had 
a  glimmering  of  her  meaning.  "The  best  book  in  the 
world,  my  dear," — he  waved  a  hand, — "is  life  itself." 

"But  I  can't  read  it  without  a  dictionary,  Doctor," 
she  objected. 

"Your  heart,  my  child,"  said  he. 

This  was  pretty,  but  not  satisfactory.  "Walter 
could  tell  me,"  she  said  to  herself,  and  forthwith 
wrote  him  a  long  letter. 

She  lived  in  a  state  not  only  of  suspended  judg- 
ment, but  also  of  suspended  emotion.  The  latter  hung 
in  the  more  delicate  balance.  Her  maidenhood  real- 
ized it  vaguely.  She  had  half  expected  John  to  speak 
of  his  love  for  her;  at  the  same  time  she  had  dreaded 
the  moment  of  declaration ;  and,  at  the  same  time  also, 
she  had  felt  that  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  wings  of 
death  it  behoved  mortal  passion  to  lie  still  and  veiled. 
The  anguish  of  the  weeks  preceding  the  tragedy  had 
passed  away.  She  had  no  pain  save  that  of  yearning 
pity  for  an  agonized  world.  The  old  people  in  their 
dependence  on  her  and  in  the  pathos  of  their  limited 
vision  once  more  became  inexpressibly  dear.  The 
childish  titles  were  invested  in  a  new  beauty.  Her 
pretty  labours  in  sorrow-stricken  cottages,  amateurish 
as  they  were,  held  a  profound  significance.  Unlike  the 
thousands  of  sweet  English  girls  up  and  down  the 
land  who  are  bred  in  the  practice  of  philanthropy  and 
think  no  more  of  it  than  of  its  concomitant  tennis- 
parties  and  flirtations,  she  had  come  upon  it  unawares, 
and  it  had  all  the  thrill  of  a  discovery.  It  was  one  lit- 


342  STELLA    MARIS 

tie  piece  fitted  certainly  into  the  baffling  puzzle  of  life. 

John  came  down  again  for  the  week-end.  Stella 
found  him  gentle,  less  gloomy,  but  oddly  remote  from 
her — remoter  even  than  when  he  lay  crushed  beneath 
the  tragedy.  Now  and  again  she  caught  him  looking 
at  her  wistfully,  whereupon  she  turned  her  eyes  away 
in  a  distress  which  she  could  not  explain.  Gradually 
she  became  aware  that  the  Great  High  Belovedest  of 
the  past  had  vanished  into  nothingness,  with  so  many 
other  illusory  things.  The  awakening  kiss  that  he 
had  given  her  as  he  carried  her  in  his  arms  faded  into 
the  far-off  dreamland.  On  the  Sunday  night  they  lin- 
gered in  the  drawing-room  for  a  moment  after  the 
old  people  had  retired  to  bed. 

"I  must  be  going  back  by  the  early  train  in  the 
morning,  and  sha'n't  see  you,"  said  he,  "so  I  '11  say 
good-by  now." 

"I  'm  sorry,  dear."  She  put  out  her  hand.  "I  hope 
the  little  change  has  done  you  good." 

For  answer  he  bent  down  and  touched  her  fore- 
head with  his  lips.  Then  he  held  the  door  open  for 
her  to  pass  out. 

"God  bless  you,  dear,"  said  he. 

She  went  up-stairs,  feeling  in  a  half-scared  way 
that  something,  she  knew  not  what,  had  happened,  and 
she  cried  herself  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

IT  was  a  sullen  night  in  mid-August,  following 
a  breathless  day  and  an  angry  sunset  that  had 
shed  a  copper-coloured  glow  above  a  bank  of 
cloud.  The  great  windows  of  the  drawing-room  of 
the  Channel  House  were  flung  open  wide,  and  on  the 
terrace  beneath  the  starless  heaven  sat  the  little  group 
of  intimates,  which  now  included  the  placid  lady  of 
the  little  Kilburn  house.  Walter  Herold,  who  had 
returned  from  Switzerland  tanned  and  strong,  told 
his  adventures  to  Sir  Oliver  and  Dr.  Ransome,  while 
John  and  Stella,  a  little  way  apart,  listened  idly.  Lady 
Blount  and  Miss  Lindon  murmured  irrelevancies  con- 
cerning the  curates  of  long  ago  and  the  present  price 
of  beef.  They  had  many  points  at  which  the  curves 
of  their  natures  touched,  such  as  mathematicians,  with 
unique  spasm  of  romance,  call  points  of  osculation. 

But  for  the  voices  all  was  still.  From  below,  at 
the  base  of  the  cliff,  came  the  lazy  lapping  of  the  sea 
against  the  rocks.  Outside  the  glow  of  light  cast  by 
the  illuminated  drawing-room  the  world  was  pitch 
black.  The  air  grew  more  and  more  oppressive. 

"I  think  there  's  going  to  be  thunder,"  said  Lady 
Blount. 

"I  hope  not,"  said  Miss  Lindon.  "I  know  John 
thinks  it  foolish,  but  I  'm  terribly  afraid  of  thunder." 

"So  does  Sir  Oliver;  but  I  don't  care.  Whenever 
there  's  a  thunder-storm,  I  go  up  to  my  room  and  put 
m^  head  under  the  bedclothes  until  it  's  over." 

"Now  is  n't  that  remarkable,  my  dear,"  said  Miss 
Lindon — "I  do  exactly  the  same!  I  draw  down  the 
blinds,  and  hide  scissors  away  in  a  drawer,  and  throw 

343 


344  STELLA    MARIS 

a  woollen  shawl  over  the  steel  fender,  and  then  I  put 
my  head  under  the  blankets.  My  Aunt  Margery,  I 
remember,  invariably  used  to  go  and  sit  in  the  coal- 
cellar.  But  she  was  a  strong-minded  woman,  and 
would  put  her  foot  on  a  black  beetle  as  soon  as  look 
at  it.  I  hope  I  'm  fond  of  most  of  God's  creatures, 
but  a  black  beetle  frightens  me  out  of  my  wits." 

"What  do  you  think  of  thunder-storms,  Stella?" 
John  asked,  knocking  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe. 

"I  'm  rather  frightened,"  she  confessed.  "Not  be- 
cause I  think  they  '11  hurt  me."  She  paused  and 
sighed.  "I  never  could  understand  them." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  understanding  a  thunder- 
storm?" he  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered.  "You  either  under- 
stand things  or  you  don't." 

Herold  broke  in  to  spare  her  further  explanation. 
"There  was  a  splendid  one  the  week  before  last  in  the 
mountains — a  real  Walpurgisnacht.  It  seemed  as 
though  hell  had  broken  loose." 

He  described  it  in  his  vivid  way.  The  elderly  ladies 
looked  at  the  glimmer  of  white  shirt-front  and  the 
glowing  cigarette-end  by  which  alone  he  was  revealed, 
and  wondered  at  the  heroical,  or,  as  it  seemed  in  the 
unconfessed  depths  of  their  souls,  the  God-defying 
qualities  of  male  humanity.  A  few  resounding 
splashes  fell  from  the  sky.  The  party  rose  hurriedly. 

"Gad!  we  're  in  for  it,"  cried  Sir  Oliver.  "Let  us 
get  indoors." 

A  flash  of  lightning  rent  the  southern  sky,  and  a 
clap  of  thunder  broke  over  the  Channel,  and  the  rain 
came  down  like  a  waterspout.  In  the  drawing-room 
Lady  Blount  put  her  hand  before  her  eyes. 

"You  must  all  forgive  me.  I  can't  stand  it.  I 
must  go  up-stairs.  Besides,  it  's  late,  very  near  bed- 
time. My  dear  Miss  Lindon,  shall  we  go?" 


STELLA   MARIS  345 

The  two  old  ladies,  after  hasty  good  nights,  retired 
to  the  protection  of  their  respective  bedclothes.  A 
great  wind  arose  and  swept  through  the  room,  blow- 
ing over  a  vase  of  flowers  on  the  piano.  Dr.  Ran- 
some,  who  happened  to  be  standing  near,  mopped  up 
the  water  with  his  handkerchief.  Herold  sprang  to 
the  window  and  shut  it.  Stella  was  by  his  side.  An- 
other flash  sped  through  the  blackness,  and  the  thun- 
der followed.  They  drew  near  together  and  waited 
for  the  next. 

Sir  Oliver  hospitably  pushed  John  and  the  old  doc- 
tor toward  the  drawing-room  door.  "There  are  drinks 
in  the  library.  It  '11  be  cosier  there,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  house,  away  from  this  confounded  racket. 
Come  along,  Walter.  Stella,  darling,  you  had  better 
go  to  bed.  It  's  the  best  place  for  little  girls  in  a 
thunder-storm." 

She  turned,  the  breadth  of  the  drawing-room  sepa- 
rating Walter  Herold  and  herself  from  the  others. 

"I  '11  stay  up  a  little  longer  and  look  at  it,  dear  Ex- 
cellency," she  said,  with  a  smile.  "I  '11  come  into  the 
library  later  and  tell  you  all  good  night." 

At  this  announcement,  and  Stellamaris's  announce- 
ments had  ever  been  sovereign  decrees,  John  and  Dr. 
Ransome,  standing  by  the  open  door,  obeyed  the  cour- 
teous wave  of  Sir  Oliver's  hand.  The  old  man  waited 
for  Herold,  who  advanced  a  pace  or  two. 

"I  suppose  you  're  dying  for  whisky  and  soda," 
said  Stella,  resignedly. 

He  stopped  short.  "Not  in  the  least.  I  would  far 
rather  look  at  this," — he  flung  a  hand  toward  the  win- 
dow,— "if  you  would  let  me." 

"Only  for  five  minutes,  Favourite,  dear;  then  I  '11 
send  you  away." 

Sir  Oliver  went  out,  shutting  the  door  behind  him. 
Herold  and  Stellamaris  were  alone  in  the  spacious 


346  STELLA    MARIS 

room.  There  came  another  flash  and  the  thunder  peal, 
and  the  rain  spattered  hard  on  the  stone  terrace. 

"Why  should  n't  we  sit  down?"  he  asked,  an<.' 
drew  a  small  settee  to  the  window. 

She  stood,  expectant  of  the  lightning.  It  came 
and  lit  up  a  suddenly  tempestuous  sea.  With  her 
eyes  straining  at  the  blackness,  she  said  in  a  low 
voice : 

"Turn  out  the  lights.     This  is  all  that  matters." 

He  went  to  the  door,  snapped  the  electric  switches, 
and  the  darkness  was  so  absolute  that  he  waited  for 
the  next  flash  to  see  his  way  across  the  room.  They 
sat  down  together  side  by  side.  A  flash  of  vehement 
and  reiterated  radiance  revealed  a  God's  wrath  of 
spindrift  scattered  from  mountainous  waves  that 
tossed  in  the  middle  distance  the  three-masted  skele- 
ton of  a  ship,  and  blasted  the  chalk-cliffed  promontory 
to  the  west  into  a  leprous  tongue.  They  watched  in 
silence  for  a  long,  long  time.  Save  for  the  lightning, 
pitch  blackness  enveloped  them.  The  rain  swished 
heavily  against  the  windows,  and  the  surf  roared  on 
the  rocks  below.  After  a  livid  revelation  of  elemental 
welter  and  the  deafening  crash  of  cataclysm,  she 
clutched  his  arm.  When  the  peal  had  rolled  away  into 
an  angry  rumble,  he  whispered: 

"Are  you  frightened?" 

"No,"  she  replied,  also  below  her  breath,  "not 
frightened.  It  excites  me,  it  makes  me  feel,  it  makes 
me  think.  I  seem  to  be  understanding  things  I  never 
understood  before.  Don't  let  us  speak." 

To  remove  impression  of  rebuke,  her  hand  slid 
down  his  arm,  found  his  hand,  and  held  it.  Neither 
spoke.  After  a  while  he  scanned  her  face  by  the 
lightning.  It  was  set,  as  though  she  saw  a  vision, 
her  eyes  gleaming,  her  lips  parted.  At  the  thunder- 
clap her  grasp  involuntarily  tightened.  Again  and 


STELLA    MARIS  347 

again  her  face  was  startlingly  visible.  Herold's  mind 
went  back  down  the  years.  He  had  seen  that  rapt  ex- 
pression times  without  number  when  she  lay  by  the 
window  of  her  sea-chamber  and  looked  out  into  the 
mysteries  of  sea  and  sky;  and  times  without  number 
she  had  held  his  hand  while  her  spirit,  as  he  had  loved 
fantastically  to  believe,  went  forth  to  dance  with  her 
sisters  of  the  foam  or  to  walk  secure  through  the 
gates  of  the  sunset.  And  he  had  loved  to  believe,  too, 
that  his  own  spirit,  in  some  blind,  attendant  way, 
though  lagging  far  behind,  followed  hers  over  the  bor- 
ders of  the  Land  That  Never  Was.  Sensitive  to  her 
moods,  he  felt  now  a  strange  excitement.  She  had 
become  once  more  the  Stellamaris  of  the  cloudless  and 
mystical  years.  The  sea  that  had  rejected  her  had 
again  claimed  her  for  its  own,  and  was  delivering 
into  her  keeping  mysteries  such  as  it  had  withheld 
,  from  her  even  then ;  for  she  had  found  no  message  in 
the  war  of  elements,  mysteries  deep  and  magnificent. 
He  returned  her  tense  pressure,  and  followed  her  spirit 
out  into  the  vastness. 

The  storm  grew  fiercer.  Every  few  moments 
spasms  of  livid  daylight  rent  the  darkness  and  daz- 
zlingly  illuminated  the  eager  faces  of  the  pair,  the 
window-jambs  and  transoms,  the  terrace,  the  howling 
waste  beyond,  the  skeleton  ship  tossing  grimly,  the 
promontory,  the  pitch  black  of  the  sky;  and  the  thun- 
der burst  in  awful  detonations  over  their  heads.  Un- 
consciously and  instinctively  Stellamaris  had  drawn 
nearer  to  him,  and  her  arm  rested  against  his.  After 
a  long  time,  in  the  stillness  of  the  dark,  he  spoke  like 
one  in  a  dream: 

"The  terrible  splendour  of  life,  that  is  the  secret — 
the  terrible  splendour." 

She  awoke  almost  with  a  shock,  and,  turning  round, 
shook  him  by  the  lapel  of  his  coat. 


348  STELLA    MARIS 

"How  did  you  know,  Walter?  How  did  you 
know?" 

Her  voice  quavered ;  he  felt  that  she  was  trembling1. 
A  flash  showed  her  straining  her  eyes  into  his  face. 
They  waited  for  the  thunderclap  during  a  second  of 
intensity. 

"What?"  he  asked. 

"Those  words.  Those  very  words  had  just  come 
to  me,  the  meaning  of  everything — The  terrible  splen- 
dour of  life.  How  did  you  know?" 

"It  was  our  souls  that  were  going1  together  through 
the  storm." 

She  released  him,  and  withdrew  a  little. 

"Did  you  know  all  that  I  was  thinking?" 

"Or  all  that  the  sea  was  telling  you  ?" 

"Did  you  feel  that,  too  ?"  she  asked  breathlessly. 

"I  think  so,"  he  replied. 

"It  was  strange,"  she  said.  "I  hardly  knew  that  I 
was  here.  I  seemed  to  be  away  in  the  midst  of  it  all, 
but  I  don't  think  I  lost  consciousness.  I  had  adven- 
tures— curious  adventures."  She  paused  abruptly, 
then  she  continued  :  "They  seemed  to  be  definite  then, 
but  they  are  all  a  blur  now.  It  was  a  kind  of  battle 
between  man  and  evil  forces,  and  I  think  I  felt  a 
voice  speaking  through  it,  and  saying  that  the  splen- 
dour of  man  would  never  be  subdued;  and  the  impres- 
sion I  've  got  is,  that  I  saw  something,  whether  it 
was  a  shape  or  a  scene  I  don't  know,  but  something 
great  and  grand  and  fierce  and  heroic,  and  the  voice 
told  me  it  was  life.  The  only  thing  I  have  clear  is 
the  words,  'the  terrible  splendour  of  life,'  the  words 
you  plucked  out  of  me." 

"It  is  the  great  secret,"  he  said. 

"Yes." 

There  was  another  silence.  The  storm  began  to 
pass  gradually  away.  The  lightning  became  rarer, 


STELLA    MARIS  349 

and  the  intervals  longer  between  flash  and  thunder. 

"It  is  beginning  to  be  clear,"  she  said  at  last.  "All 
that  has  troubled  me.  All  that  you  guessed  I  was 
feeling,  and  that  I  told  you  of  only  when  you  com- 
pelled me.  You  have  been  right.  Once — do  you  re- 
member?— you  said  that  if  I  saw  God  through  the 
beauty  and  the  vanity  of  the  world  all  would  be 
well." 

"I  ought  to  have  told  you  to  see  Him  through  the 
pain  of  the  world,"  said  Herold. 

"You  have  told  me  that,  in  other  words,  ever  since ; 
and  I  was  deaf." 

"Not  I,  dear,"  said  Herold. 

"Yes,  you.  Now  I  understand."  She  drew  a  deep 
breath.  "Now,  I  understand.  It 's  like  an  open  book. 
That  woman — Unity — wait,"  she  paused,  and  put  her 
two  hands  to  her  head  in  the  darkness.  "I  have  a 
glimmer  of  a  memory — it  's  so  illusive.  It  seems  that 
I  saw  Unity  just  now.  I  understand  all  that  she  was, 
all  that  she  meant."  A  flash  showed  the  sea.  "Yes, 
I  was  out  there,"  she  cried  excitedly,  and  pointed. 
"Just  out  there."  Darkness  engulfed  them.  "I  for- 
get," she  faltered,  "I  forget." 

"But  the  sea  has  taken  you  back  at  last,  Stellama- 
ris,"  said  Herold. 

She  seized  his  hand  and  held  it  during  the  peal. 
Then  she  cried  in  a  tone  of  sudden  terror: 

"Walter!" 

"Yes?" 

"What  you  said — your  prophesy — the  comfort  of 
the  sea — the  deeper  meaning — " 

He  leaped  to  his  feet. 

"Don't  think  anything  more  of  it.  They  were  just 
foolish  words  to  comfort  you.  You  and  I  seem  to 
have  been  on  the  Edge  of  Beyond  and  looked  over, 
and  we  're  not  quite  normal.  We  must  get  down  now 


350  STELLA    MARIS 

to  practical  things.  I  'm  just  what  I  always  was, 
dear,  a  fantastic  person  who  rode  with  you  into  fairy- 
land. I  am  still.  Nothing  more." 

"Are  you  quite  sure?"  suddenly  asked  a  deep  voice 
out  of  the  blackness  of  the  room. 

Stella  with  a  little  cry  of  fright  sprang  to  Herold 
for  protection.  For  a  second  or  two  they  were  still. 
In  their  exaltation  the  question  seemed  to  come  from 
some  vast  depth  of  the  abysm  of  time.  Their  hearts 
beat  fast,  and  they  clung  together,  listening,  and  there 
was  not  a  sound.  Then  the  lightning  played  its  dan- 
cing daylight  about  the  room,  and  they  saw  John 
Risca  standing  by  the  door.  They  sprang  apart. 

In  another  moment  the  room  was  flooded  with  elec- 
tric light.  The  drawing-room,  for  all  its  beauty, 
looked  mean  and  unimportant.  The  lights  showed  up 
glaringly  an  old  Florentine  tapestry  over  the  chimney- 
piece.  It  seemed  to  have  singularly  little  relation  to 
life.  It  jarred  impertinently. 

"I  came  in  to  find  Walter,"  said  John;  "I  did  n't 
think  Stella  was  still  up.  It  's  late.  You  did  n't  hear 
me.  I  'm  sorry  I  inadvertently  overheard." 

"There  's  nothing,  my  dear  John,  that  you  could 
not  have  heard,"  said  Herold. 

John  came  forward  in  his  lumbering  way. 

"I  know  that,  Walter." 

For  a  minute  or  two  no  one  spoke.  The  three  stood 
stock-still,  their  hearts  thumping.  Outside,  the  rain 
fell  pitilessly  on  the  flags  of  the  terrace,  and  the  wan- 
ing storm  flashed  and  growled.  John's  burning  eyes 
looked  at  Herold  beneath  heavy,  knitted  brows.  At 
last  he  said: 

"You  love  Stella.  You  have  loved  her  always. 
You  never  told  me." 

"That  is  not  so,"  said  Herold.  "You  have  found 
us  in  a  foolishly  false  position.  A  thunder-storm  is 


STELLA   MARTS  351 

an  emotional  piece  of  business.  My  old  intimacy  with 
Stella  has  its  privileges.  I  '11  leave  you.  Stella  will 
speak  for  herself." 

John  stretched  out  a  detaining  arm.  "No,  my 
friend ;  stay.  We  three  must  have  a  talk  together.  It 
was  bound  to  come  sooner  or  later.  Let  it  be  now." 

He  spoke  quietly,  with  dignity  and  authority. 

"There  is  nothing  for  us  to  talk  about,"  said  Her- 
old, — Stellamaris  stood  clutching  the  back  of  an  arm- 
chair, and  looking  from  one  man  to  the  other, — "the 
words  you  overheard  ought  to  tell  you  that.  And  in 
answer  to  your  question,  I  can  say  that  I  am  quite 
sure." 

"You  lie,"  said  John,  quietly.  "You  lie  out  of  the 
loyalty  of  your  heart — "  he  raised  his  great  hand  to 
check  the  other's  outburst — "God  Almighty  in  Heaven 
knows  I  'm  not  accusing  you.  If  ever  man  had  deep 
and  devoted  and  unselfish  love  from  another,  I  've  had 
it  from  you.  And  I  have  it  still.  It  's  a  matter  not 
of  reproach,  but  of  reparation." 

"Don't  you  think,"  said  Herold,  "we  might  con- 
tinue this  extraordinary  conversation  in  the  library — 
by  ourselves?" 

"No,"  said  John  in  the  obstinate  tone  that  Herold 
had  known  for  many  years.  "You  and  I  are  two 
men,  and  Stella  is  a  woman,  and  a  hell-mess  just  like 
that — "  he  pointed  to  the  tempest — "has  upset  our 
lives.  It  's  time  to  put  them  to  rights  again." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  're  talking  about,"  said 
Herold.  "It  's  a  pity  you  have  chosen  to-night. 
Things  are  a  bit  abnormal.  Let  us  go  to  bed,  and  talk 
to-morrow,  if  you  like,  in  the  light  of  common  sense." 

John  folded  his  arms.  "I  'm  going  to  talk  to-night. 
I  want  you  calmly  to  consider  the  position." 

"I  do,"  said  Herold.  "Stop," — as  John  was  about 
to  interrupt, — "let  me  speak." 


352  STELLA   MARIS 

"Yes,"  said  Stella,  breaking  silence  for  the  first 
time ;  "let  Walter  speak." 

But  she  stood  apart,  fascinated  by  this  strange  duel, 
as  her  primitive  ancestress  might  have  done  when  two 
males  fought  for  her  with  flint-headed  axes. 

"What  I  feel  as  regards  Stella  is  neither  here  nor 
there.  I  've  never  told  her  that  I  loved  her.  I  've 
never  told  you.  Both  you  and  she  have  told  me  that 
you  love  each  other.  That  was  enough  for  me.  I 
joined  with  Unity  in  seeking  to  remove  the  obstacle 
in  the  path  of  your  happiness.  If  Unity  had  not  fore- 
stalled me,  I — well,  God  knows  what  I  should  have 
done!  I  left  you  asleep  that  evening,  and  went,  half 
crazy,  to  the  flat,  and  there  I  found  what  I  found. 
But,  anyhow,  Unity  committed  murder  and  suicide  to 
set  the  two  of  you  free.  If  you  want  strong,  blatant 
words,  there  you  have  them.  A  girl,  one  of  God's 
chosen,  has  laid  down  her  life  for  the  two  of  you." 
He  stood  between  them  and  threw  up  his  hands. 
"Take  each  other.  It  is  a  sacrament." 

Stella,  her  arms  still  on  the  back  of  the  chair,  hung 
her  head  and  stared  downward.  John  cast  a  quick 
glance  at  her  and  then,  a  thing  which  he  rarely  did, 
drew  his  great  frame  up  to  its  full  height  and  chal- 
lenged his  friend. 

"If  you  don't  love  her,  she  loves  you.    I  know." 

Herold  said : 

"You  two  belong  to  each  other." 

"Then  Stella  must  decide,"  said  John. 

She  threw  out  a  flutter  of  delicate  fingers  and  cov- 
ered her  face.  "No,  no!"  she  gasped. 

The  lightning  flickered  mildly  in  the  well-lit  room, 
and  the  eventual  thunder  reverberated  in  distant 
anger. 

John  again  came  close  to  Herold.  "This  may  be 
an  extraordinary  conversation,  but  it  has  to  be.  If 


STELLA   MARTS  353 

Stella  loved  me,  do  you  think  she  would  stand  like 
that?" 

Stella  dropped  to  her  knees,  her  face  and  arms  hud- 
dled against  the  chair. 

"My  dear  old  man,  I  Ve  learned  many  things  of 
late.  I  can't  tell  you  exactly.  I  'm  not  good  at  that 
sort  of  thing.  But  Unity  has  been  too  big  for  me." 

Stella  raised  a  white  face. 

"What  do  you  mean?  Say  exactly  what  you 
mean." 

"I  mean — oh,  God  knows  what  I  mean."  He 
strode  blindly  across  the  room,  returned,  and  faced 
the  two,  still  near  together.  "Can't  you  understand  ?" 
he  cried,  with  a  wide  gesture.  "I  'm  infinitesimal  sand 
beneath  that  child's  feet.  I  'm  a  blind  mole  in  com- 
parison with  her  transcendent  vision.  I  'm  in  the 
dust.  Oh,  God!"  He  turned  away. 

Stella  rose,  and,  clasping  hands  to  her  bosom,  went 
to  him. 

"Belovedest,  for  Christ's  sake,  what  is  the  end  of 
all  this?" 

He  halted  and  took  her  hands. 

"Not  shadows,  not  lies.  Once  I  thought — indeed,  I 
knew — you  loved  me.  That  was  when  you  were  an 
ignorant  child.  You  loved  some  one  you  thought  was 
me.  Now  your  eyes  are  opened.  You  have  passed 
through  flames.  Knowledge  has  come  to  you.  You 
see  me  as  I  am,  and  your  love  has  gone.  I  know,  too, 
what  I  am.  Unity  has  taught  me.  You  can't — you 
don't  love  me,  Stella.  That  I  know.  I  've  known  it 
ever  since  that  day  when  we  put  her  into  her  grave." 

Herold  came  between  them  imploringly.  "My  dear 
man — my  dear  fellow — what  is  the  use  of  this  wild 
talk?  You  two  love  each  other.  Unity  gave  her  life 
for  the  two  of  you.  If  you  two  don't  come  together, 
it  's  all  overwhelming,  blasting  irony.  I  could  n't 


354  STELLA   MARIS 

believe  in  God  after  it.  It  would  be  hellishly  cynical. 
Stella,  in  God's  name,  tell  him  that  you  are  bound  by 
Unity's  sacrifice — that  you  love  him  and  will  marry 
him  and  make  his  life  happy  1" 

Stella,  very  pale,  looked  at  John.  "If  you  want  me, 
I  will  marry  you,"  she  said  in  a  clear  voice. 

John  waved  her  aside.  "I  will  not  take  you,  my 
dear,"  said  he. 

Spurned  sex  winced  involuntarily. 

"If  you  have  stopped  caring  for  me — " 

"I  stopped  caring?  I?  Merciful  God,  I  've  never 
loved  you  so  much.  But  you  love  a  better  man. 
What  's  the  good  of  saying  the  same  things  over  and 
over  again?  But  I  '11  tell  you  this,  both  of  you,  that 
if  Unity  had  not  given  her  life,  and  if  I  had  been 
free,  I  should  have  fought  for  you  and  had  you  de- 
spite everything.  That  's  my  accursed  nature.  But 
Unity  has  not  died  in  vain,  and  it  's  because  of  that 
child's  death,  the  beauty  and  heroism  of  it,  that  I  'm 
able  to  stand  here  and  tear  my  heart  out  and  throw 
it  away.  Don't  make  any  mistake," — he  turned 
fiercely  on  Herold, — "it  's  not  I  who  am  giving  her 
up.  It  's  Unity." 

"Very  well,"  said  Herold.  "Let  us  put  it  at  that. 
It  's  your  point  of  view.  You  also  force  me  to  speak. 
It  would  be  grotesque  to  keep  silence  any  longer. 
Yes,  I  do  love  her.  She  is  the  beginning  and  end  of 
life  to  me.  If  she  had  lain  on  her  back  all  her  days, 
I  should  never  have  married  another  woman.  There ! 
You  have  it  now." 

The  two  men's  eyes  held  each  other  for  a  space. 
Stellamaris  looked  at  the  pair  with  a  fearful  admira- 
tion. They  were  men.  Herold  she  had  divined  and 
known  long  ago;  this,  on  his  part,  was  only  the  su- 
preme fulfilment  of  promise.  But  John  Risca,  who 
had  passed  through  the  illusion  and  disillusion  of  her 


STELLA    MARTS  355 

soul,  stood  before  her  in  new  strength,  a  great  and 
moving  figure. 

At  last  John  drew  a  deep  breath,  turned  to  Stella- 
maris  very  gently,  and  smiled. 

"And  you?" 

The  smile  sent  swift  pain  through  her  heart.  She 
made  a  step  or  two,  and  fell  sobbing  on  his  breast. 

"O  Belovedest,  I  am  sorry!  You  have  guessed 
right.  Forgive  me!" 

He  caressed  the  bowed  head  tenderly  for  an  instant, 
then  releasing  himself,  he  clapped  his  hand  on  Her- 
old's  shoulder  and  shook  it  with  rough  affection. 

"I  'm  going  to  bed,"  said  he.  He  moved  to  the 
door.  There  he  paused  to  nod  a  good  night;  but  at 
sight  of  them  both  looking  sadly  at  him  he  walked 
back  a  couple  of  paces. 

"Don't  worry  about  me.  I  'm  at  peace  with  myself 
for  the  first  time  for  years.  There  's  lots  of  happi- 
ness in  the  world  left."  He  smiled  again.  "Enough 
for  the  three  of  us — and  for  Unity." 

He  left  them,  and  went  to  bed  in  the  room  which 
Stellamaris  had  furnished  for  him  long  ago,  and  fell 
into  the  sleep  of  the  man  who  has  found  rest  at  last 
in  the  calm  and, certain  knowledge  of  spiritual  things. 
Unity  had  not  died  in  vain.  And  Stellamaris,  sitting 
once  more  by  Herold's  side  in  the  wide  bay  of  the 
window,  and  talking  with  him  in  a  hushed  voice  of 
the  wondrous  things  that  had  come  to  pass,  knew 
that  John  Risca  had  spoken  a  great  truth.  It  had 
been  God's  will  that  so  should  the  terrible  splendour 
of  the  world  be  made  manifest. 

Herold  asked  for  the  million-billionth  time  in  the 
history  of  mankind : 

"When  did  you  first  find  that  you  loved  me?" 

She  replied,  perhaps  more  truly  than  most  maidens : 

"There  was  never  a  time  when  I  did  n't  love  you. 


356  STELLA   MARIS 

I  mean — I  don't  quite  know  what  I  mean,"  she  said 
confusedly.  "You  see,  I  've  lived  a  strange  life, 
dear,"  she  went  on.  "You  seem  to  have  been  a  part 
of  me  ever  since  I  can  remember  what  is  worth  re- 
membering. You  have  always  understood  things  that 
went  on  inside  me  almost  before  I  could  tell  them  to 
you.  I  always  wanted  you  to  explain  foolishness  that 
I  could  n't  speak  of  to  any  one  else." 

"That  's  very  beautiful,"  Herold  interrupted,  "but 
love  is  a  different  matter.  When  did  the  real  love 
come  to  you?" 

"I  think  it  was  that  morning  in  the  garden  when 
you  almost  whipped  me,"  said  Stella.  She  started  an 
inch  or  two  away  from  him.  "And  I  'm  sure  you 
knew  it,"  she  said. 

And  he  remembered,  as  he  had  often  remembered 
in  his  great  struggle,  her  eyes,  turning  from  agates 
to  diamonds  and  her  words,  "Do  you  love  me  like 
that?" 

"Heaven  knows,  Stellamaris  dear;  I  did  not  mean 
to  betray  myself." 

She  laughed  the  enigmatic  laugh  of  a  woman's  con- 
tentment, and  Herold  was  too  wise  to  ask  why. 

They  spoke  of  deepest  things.  "There  is  something 
I  must  tell  you,"  said  he,  "which  up  to  now  I  have 
had  to  keep  secret,  and  it  is  right  that  you  should 
know." 

And  he  told  her  the  story  of  Unity  and  himself — 
the  revolver,  their  talk  of  the  evil  woman,  their  part- 
ing words,  his  crazed  adventure  through  the  sunny 
streets. 

She  listened,  her  body  leaning  forward,  her  hands 
clasped  on  her  knee.  When  he  had  finished,  she  sat 
without  change  of  attitude. 

"You  did  that  so  that  another  man  could  marry 
the  woman  you  loved.  Unity  did  that  so  that  the  man 


STELLA   MARIS  357 

she  loved  could  marry  another  woman.  John  came 
in  to-night  to  sacrifice  himself  and  give  us  both  hap- 
piness. The  three  of  you  have  done  terrible  and 
splendid  things.  I  am  the  only  one  of  us  four  who 
has  done  nothing." 

Herold  rose,  took  a  nervous  pace  or  two.  What  she 
said  needed  more  than  a  lover's  sophistical  reassur- 
ance. He  could  speak  a  thousand  words  of  comfort; 
but  he  knew  that  her  soul  required  a  supreme  an- 
swer, a  clue  to  the  dark  labyrinth  through  which 
she  had  worked.  What  could  he  say?  He  looked 
through  the  window,  and  suddenly  saw  that  which  to 
him  was  an  inspiration.  He  threw  the  folding-doors 
wide.  It  had  stopped  raining  long  ago,  though  neither 
had  noticed. 

"Come  out  on  the  terrace,"  said  he. 

She  followed  him  into  the  gusty  air.  The  sea  still 
roared  resentfully  at  the  late  disturbance  of  its  quiet. 
The  southwest  wind  that  had  brought  up  the  storm 
had  driven  the  great  rack  of  black  cloud  above  the 
horizon,  and  there  below  the  rack  was  a  band  of  dark 
but  cloudless  sky,  and  in  it  one  star  hung  serene. 
Herold  pointed  to  it. 

"What  have  you  done,  dear?"  His  voice  broke 
in  a  catch  of  exultation,  and  his  usually  nimble  wit 
failed  to  grasp  the  lunatic  falsity  of  the  analogy. 
"You  have  done  what  that  has  done — come  through 
the  storm  pure  and  steadfast." 

"Not  I,  dear,"  she  said,  "but  my  faith  in  the  God 
we  breathe." 

"No;  you  yourself."  He  put  his  arm  around  her, 
and  all  his  love  spoke.  "You.  The  living  mystery 
of  beauty  that  is  you."  He  whispered  into  her  lips. 
"You — Stellamaris — Star  of  the  Sea." 

THE    END 


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